


The Crownless: Part I - The Fuckening

by ThusAtlas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Azkaban, BAMF Draco Malfoy, BAMF Hermione Granger, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Conspiracy, Creature Fic, Dark, Death, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, Everyone is having a bad time after the war, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Harry & Hermione are like siblings, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, I don't want to tag too much because spoilers, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Mythical Beings & Creatures, Narcissa is having a bad time, Original Character(s), Plot Twists, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Ron is stressed, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela Mates, also appreciate why they're needed so, but ooo that tension build, except if you think there will be lemons, like really really slow burn, not fucking around here, really slow burn, snails pace slow, then YES, when one has lemons one must make lemonade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 216,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThusAtlas/pseuds/ThusAtlas
Summary: The Fuckening (noun):  When your day is going too well and you don't trust it and some shit finally goes down.In this case, this day was fourteen months into Draco Malfoy's Azkaban sentence -  September the 8th, 1999. Ever since the war ended, he had just been existing. His mother just exists. He didn't know if his father still existed and he wondered whether the outside world continued to exist.Unbeknownst to him, the 8th of September proved to be a remarkable day for many. Harry's frustratingly benign desk job took a turn off the deep end, Hermione's convoluted work with the Ministry became more extraneous than she thought possible, Ron found another wrench in his life plan and Theo found a cat whilst trying to find a horse.But then again, it was The Fuckening, so everyone's existence was inevitably going to change.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 449
Kudos: 410





	1. Introductions Please

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer, I own nothing but the ramblings of my mind, not the characters within it.

**_All that is gold does not glitter,_ **   
**_Not all those who wander are lost;_ **   
**_The old that is strong does not wither,_ **   
**_Deep roots are not reached by frost._ **   
**_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_ **   
**_A light from the shadows shall spring;_ **   
**_Renewed shall be blade that was broken:_ **   
**_The crownless again shall be king._ **

_\- J.R.R. Tolkien._

**Chapter 1 - Introductions Please**

* * *

* * *

**_Sometime before dawn on the 8th of September, 1999 - Azkaban Prison, North Sea_ **

Fourteen months.

Fourteen months since Draco Malfoy had seen outside of the four walls of his cramped cell. Fourteen months of a two-year sentence. His mother occasionally visited, bringing him the latest gossip headlines, never erring toward conversation of any substance. ‘ _Keep it light’_ she would insist as if acknowledging anything more serious than Ms Toollywedge’s change of hairstyle would shatter the illusion that they were not, in fact, sat across from one another in Azkaban. Not to Draco’s best efforts: he’d tried to broach the topic of the Ministry reform, his father, his own health - anything!

But alas, _‘keep it light Draco_ ’.

Over his sentence, he had noticed a general malaise come over him. Though he had originally chalked it up to the lingering aura of depression left behind from the many years of Dementors patrolling the halls of the decrepit labyrinth, he could no longer accept that to be true. He knew deep down, as one does when something is fundamentally wrong, that he was not well. The exhaustion that used to come on in waves now settled like a thick frost deep in the marrow of his bones. The gnawing hunger that had been his constant companion since his arrival at Azkaban, stretched and growled, flexing its maw, embodying something independent from Draco’s need for food as it threatened to overwhelm him. The restlessness that had him pacing the circumference of his cell back and forth to temper it, could no longer be reasoned with. So the only way that Draco had found he could tolerate such a need, was to remain as still and as controlled as possible, lest the slightest twitch would open the floodgates to the burning desire to move once again. The anxiety and fear that had trickled into his mind, dogging every thought and attempt to distract himself from his own reality, no longer existed. Instead, Draco welcomed the numbness that came over him when he embraced Fear like the old friend that it was.

Narcissa Malfoy’s perfume held notes of cinnamon and patchouli. Fourteen months ago, the smell would have summoned memories of running around the manor as a small boy; his Mother’s comfort when he scraped his knee. Before him now, the cloud hung limply in the middle of his cell around her recently vacated seat, mocking him with broken promises. During her last few visits, Draco had tried to explain to her that something was ill with his health, to implore her to seek medical intervention on his behalf. Though he had spoken with the prison guards, nothing had come of it; his gradual decline had been attributed to the conditions of his sentence – not that that changed anything either. But as his Mother had sat before him in all her aristocratic refinement, conversing as if over high tea, Draco had surrendered to the realisation that his mother had been in full society mode the entire time. Therefore, there was no hope that she would acknowledge that her son was wasting away before her eyes in an Azkaban cell, nor that her husband was in the same predicament. For if she did, she would shatter like crystal glass. And so she had chatted, poised and calm, dead eyes unseeing to the reality around her. A cruel combination of occulmency and denial.

Draco’s cell wasn’t much: a cot pushed up in the corner with a pile of itchy brown blankets strewn across it; an area for toiletries and a rickety wooden chair for visitors to sit. A heavy, black, iron locked door was the only point of entry and exit, and one twelve by fifteen-inch barred window slat at the very top of the opposite wall that gave an unbidden view of the sky. As it stood, this twelve by fifteen panel had become a window to Draco's sanity. For many a night, he would try to sort the visible stars he could see amongst the constellations to distract himself from the sounds of his neighbours. During the day, he would place the time from the distance the sun travelled in a little rectangle of gold across his cell. It wasn’t a lot, but it had been enough. Enough to keep that last bit of himself from the fear, from the maw, from the burning.

The sun had long gone down. The ambient sounds of the prison around him had transferred into their nocturnal soundtrack of deafening silence only broken by restless, nightmare fuelled sleep. Draco lay down on his cot, his head towards the door. From this angle, he fancied that he could see a bigger patch of the sky. It was a clear night. The stars seemed brighter than normal against their fathomless backdrop. Nonetheless, Draco began his night-time ritual of trying to find constellations and shapes.

Something unfurled deep within him.

He paused his study of the stars and held his breath; it could have been hours or minutes since he had laid down.

Everything stopped.

The maw of his hunger quelled.

The burning ceased.

The frost crinkled.

And Fear twitched its head, eager to see something new.

Deep, deep down, something ancient awoke and slowly began to stretch and expand. The frost burst and refroze as ice in his bones. His blood burned as it coursed through his veins. The maw of his hunger, this all-encompassing starvation, overwhelmed his senses. His mouth opened in a silent scream as the thing within him continued to grow. It twined up his spine, laced through his ribs, squeezed his lungs and pierced his heart. Its burning path spread through his limbs, his legs kicked with fiery restlessness as his fingers dug into his blankets in an attempt to ground himself. The tendons of his hands stood out in stark relief in the moonlight as his neck snapped back and his spine arched.

And still, the burning increased, searing every hair and fibre.

Still, ice spread from his bones to sinew and joints.

Still, the maw opened wider, yearning for something particular that could satiate the hollow hunger growing within him.

Draco buried his fingers further into the cot beneath him as the rest of his body strained tauter. From the nails burrowed amongst the blankets, talons slowly came forth, piercing and shredding the bedding.

Fear, who had been watching quietly in the background, trying to fathom the scene before her, joined the fray at last. The final thing that pierced Draco's consciousness was the blood-curdling, animalistic scream that tore from his throat. At last, Fear enveloped him in her numbing blanket and Draco’s reality went black.


	2. Meanwhile....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I am amazed by the positive response to the first post. Thank you truly! So, as promised, here's the first Chapter. Buckle in, we're here for a long one. 
> 
> Hopefully, the proofread has caught all the mistakes!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Depictions of past violence and inferred terrorism. 
> 
> Thank you again! I hope you enjoy!

**_Preamble. Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and the unequal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world. Now therefore, the general assembly proclaims this universal declaration of human rights as a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations. To the end that every individual and every organ of society, keeping this declaration constantly in mind, shall strive by teaching an education to promote respect for these rights and freedoms, and by progressive measures, national and international, to secure their universal and effective recognition and observance._ **

****

**_Article 1: All human beings are born free and equal…_ **

**Chapter 2 - Meanwhile...**

* * *

* * *

**_07:22 am, 8th September 1999 - Somewhere in the British Ministry_ **

The life of a memo was short. The colour of the memo’s life was dependent upon the author’s choice. Some unconsciously reached for the pile of charmed memorandum parchment, taking no notice of the characteristics of the body that would carry their message. Others filed the memorandum parchment in orderly stacks, sorted according to colour and size, taking great care to only send a purple missive to finance while orange would flit to the canteen to check the special of the day. But still, the duration of its life was as short as the journey it took to deliver its message to the intended recipient.

On this day, an off-white piece of parchment was selected by thin fingers. In a rushed hand, the note was scrawled across the blank expanse. Signed with a scratch, the author printed the date and time: 07:22 am, 8th September 1999. Before the fresh ink could dry, an ebony wand tapped its surface. The magic curled around the parchment and folded it into a neatly pointed aeroplane. The author whispered the recipient’s name, flicked his wand and the life of the memorandum began.

The memo whizzed from the office and down the joined corridor. At this time of the morning, the halls of the Ministry were beginning to fill with bleary-eyed workers stumbling toward the nearest point of coffee collection. The memo slalomed between two gossiping witches, making a beeline for the open elevator doors. A sudden stop as an owl flew in through a nearby open window carrying a Daily Prophet. The doors to the elevator closed. The memo about-faced, circling the gossiping witch’s heads as it selected a new route, before disappearing down an adjacent corridor towards the nearest stairwell. The memo began to descend, following the circular line of the spiral staircase bannisters. Upon reaching the next platform, the memo exited onto a busier corridor that led to the elevator banks near a cafeteria.

The memo entered the furthest elevator and was joined by several other missives in varying shapes and sizes, all hovering diligently above the passengers below. At the first stop, the changing heads mirrored the changing missives. As people disembarked and embarked the elevator, coloured planes left and were replaced by others, and still, the off-white memo hung in place. Further and further, stop after stop, the memo hung there, standing guard over the tenants. At some point, a larger pink missive joined the off-white memo in its stoic pilgrimage.

At the furthest and coldest point of the Ministry to where it had begun, the off-white memo and its counterpart disembarked the still full elevator together and began their gentle journey down the silent beige corridor. Passing the closed doors of darkened offices, the memos ascended towards the ceiling, aligning themselves with the small opening hidden away in the top corner next to a vent.

The only sound that could be heard was the delicate swish of air as the parchment planes cut around the bends of the tunnels, descending further and further into silence.

Breaching the tunnels, the planes swooped out onto a glossy black corridor. They danced around a witch who rushed from one room, her nose buried in the file in her hand. They swayed between two wizards walking together, their quietened voices glancing the memos wings as they cut through.

And still further the missives travelled. The silence of the journey was akin to the peace found in birds gliding across a calm ocean. Their reflections on the polished black surfaces of the walls and floors shimmered as they danced through the air toward their destination.

Finally, an oak door with the gold letters of their recipient embossed on the front came into view. The nose of the memos dipped down as they flattened to skim through the gap between the entryway and the floor. Once inside, they reformed their shape and circled high above to sight for a place to land. A vast mahogany desk stood centre of the room, its shiny surface clear of clutter, the in-tray neat and welcoming.

In a gentle amble, the memos twinned around one another in perfect harmony in their descent. With nothing more than a crinkle, they touched down in the in-tray, thus completing their journey. There, they waited patiently for the recipient of their messages to arrive, to finish what they had begun. 

*

**_07:00am, 8th of September 1999 - Department of Magical Law Enforcement, British Ministry._ **

_It’s not a big deal_ , Harry Potter told himself again. He knew going into the big wide world, that life was a lot bigger than Hogwarts. It’s a lot bigger than a couple of prophecies. It’s more complicated than finding a few Horcruxes, and sure, there are more people than a Chosen One. He knew this, he had told people this himself. When the war ended, the media attention and fame had been overwhelming. He hated the spotlight, he had just wanted to get on with his life without having to constantly relive the past through interviews and people congratulating him. It wasn’t just him. People, good people, people he loved, had died. He felt dirty accepting the praise and adoration while he keenly grieved their loss. So when Kingsley introduced him to Gawain Robards, who then proceeded to offer him, Ron and Hermione a place in Auror training without the necessary academic requirements, of course he had jumped at it. Threw himself towards it without looking back.

They say that hindsight is twenty-twenty and as Harry sat behind his desk that was littered with disappointing paperwork, illuminated by the sterile office light that cast his cubicle into a dismal shade of grey, he could see how he had reached this moment of resigned loneliness. While his tenacity for Auror training had been praised in the Daily Prophet headlines, his relationship with Ginny had dwindled down to post-it notes sent via owl. She had been accepted into the Holyhead Harpies once she had finished Hogwarts and had started training with them immediately. Considering that Harry never made any effort to take time from his training to see her, Ginny didn’t either, and so they had communicated in short notes until one day it stopped entirely. The most telling thing about their failed relationship to Harry was the fact that neither of them sort to chase the other. More so, when the Daily Prophet reported that Ginny was in a relationship with the Beater from the Falmouth Falcons - Antonin Rabnott – Harry’s reaction had been a blink, a brief smile at her and her new beaux on the front cover before he chugged the rest of his coffee and continued writing his report.

Fourteen months later, Harry had finished his training and was a working Auror. As he sat there, his eyes skimmed the randomly coloured files placed haphazardly in the in-tray, he told himself again, _it’s not a big deal_. Everyone had to pay their dues. Everyone had to work their way up through the ranks. And so what if people he graduated training with were working homicide cases whilst he was stuck with petty crime and ordinances. Hadn’t he said he didn’t want special treatment? It’s not like he defeated Voldemort or anything. No, he wouldn’t think such a way, that sense of entitlement would only breed bad behaviour later on.

He heaved a sigh and started skimming the files piled to his left. These were the open active cases he had:

_Noise complaint at 17 Athrach Avenue_

_Missing dog_

_Missing dog_

_Missing dog_

_Missing cat!_

_Missing dog_

_Stolen teapot_

_Break-in at Haldon Hall_

_Strange lights in the sky_

He took a deep breath through his nose as he scrubbed a hand down his face, ruffling his day-old stubble.

 _It’s fine. It’s not a big deal_.

He reached over and opened the desk drawer, pulling a battered black file from within. Just because he had been assigned to all the desk-jockey cases, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to do his best work. At some point, Robards would have to assign him to better cases. As it stood, Harry had a suspect in mind for a number of his petty theft crimes: Theodore Nott. His name was constantly popping up in less than savoury, white-collar conversations though nothing concrete had ever turned up. Talk amongst his colleagues was that either Nott was just a low-life scumbag or this was a pathetic attempt at following in his father’s footsteps. To Harry, it always seemed that Nott had been to the place where the new missing-item-of-the-week was supposed to be. But he was a sly bastard, equipped with alibis, convenient excuses and always backed by the fact that he was never found with the metaphorical dirt on his hands. Harry suspected that Nott was using Blaise Zabini’s establishment: a nightclub that toed the line as far as the books were concerned, as a cover of some sort.

Harry shoved hair from his face as he huffed a sigh. He glanced at the clock - 7 am. The end of his shift.

A knock sounded from behind him and he peered over his shoulder to see Robard’s lean against the frame of his cubicle.

“Any headway with getting that pile down Potter?” he said, eyeing the mess of paperwork and coloured folders sceptically. Harry blew breath into his cheeks as he surveyed his desk.

“Yes?” He thought he had, but if he was being honest with himself, it always looked the same no matter how much work he did, so it was equally possible that he had been staring blankly into space for the past twelve hours.

Robards chuffed as he pushed off the frame. Shucking his hands into his pockets he sighed. “On your way home can you do me a favour? We’ve just had a noise complaint at this address.” He pulled a scrap of parchment from his pocket and held it out to Harry between his fingers. “Shouldn’t be anything serious, but stop by nonetheless to keep the neighbours happy. Won’t take you five minutes.” 

Harry took the parchment: _The Mumbles Farm, Surrey._ “Sure, I’ll swing by, though how loud does the noise have to be to disturb the neighbours of a farm?” He pulled his wand from his sleeve and tapped his desk; the files and papers began to stack themselves into some semblance of order that threatened to topple at the slightest of breezes.

“I don’t know kid, you know how these people are,” Robards huffed, “just go there to say what you have to, then get some sleep yeah?” Harry nodded in confirmation as he dimmed the desk lamp and pulled on his cloak, his lips firmly locked tight.

_It’s fine. It’s no big deal_. Asked to do the bare minimum for the bare minimum amount of work he was assigned to do. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume that they didn’t actually want him as an Auror in the fi-

A cold shot of dread slithered down his spine as if someone had poured ice down his back. He continued busying himself as he gathered his things. One breath in. One breath out. He could hear Robards voice grumbling on from the entry of his cubicle, but he couldn’t hear the words over the beat of the drum in his head. Were they phasing him out? Did they want him to leave? Were they trying to bury him under paperwork?

“Got everything?”

Harry’s head snapped up and he stared at Robards as he forced the question to process through the percussive performance in his mind.

“Ye- ”, he cleared his throat, “Yeah, I’ll uh, see you this evening yeah?”

“Sure thing kid, get some sleep. And remember, don’t worry yourself about this. Shouldn’t take you five minutes, I promise.” With a final warm wink, Robards strode out of sight, leaving Harry numb in the middle of his clinical cubicle. His heart slowed as his thoughts raced. Could they really be forcing him to quit? But why? Why would they do that? After everything?

Harry paid no real attention as he left the office for the elevators, his mind turning over the mounting argument that pointed to the fact that he was being shunted out. He shuffled onto the carriage, taking a space near the back. The box was filled with the fresh-faced day workers and colourful memos hovered near the ceiling. Above Harry, an off-white memo perched like a sentinel over his journey. At the atrium, he disembarked making his way to the apparition point as his mind still tumbled over possible theories.

Reaching his destination, he mechanically flicked his wand, feeling the familiar pull in his navel. With a crack, Harry appeared in a countrylane opposite a long, cobble drive. The sun, that peaked over the horizon, spilt a red hue over the still sleeping land. Pulling his robe tight around him, Harry set off down the drive toward the house, casting the usual detection charms as he went.

" _Could never be too cautious,_ " Robards had repeated during his training. The thought gave him pause. The dewy morning air settled on his cheeks as he puffed a steamy breath.

 _It’s fine. No big deal_.

Harry continued his path, determinedly focusing on the task at hand. He could pull the thread of his job security later with Hermione when she got home from work. She’d be heading in about now, their paths crossing as per usual like ships in the night.

As for now, Harry rolled his shoulders as he approached the front door of a red brick farmhouse. He wrapped his knuckles against the surface and waited, his ears pricked for any sounds inside. He took in the stature of the building: the windows dark, the inside still. The creeping ivy up the front the sizeable house gave it a whimsical appearance. He knocked again and listened. Not a sound came from within.

Harry paused, mulling over the situation. He was at a farm. His limited knowledge of such places accumulated to farmers tending to work full days, so it could be inferred, he supposed, that the owner would be out on the land somewhere. Then there was the reason for being there - the noise complaint. He listened now, not a sound. He shifted his feet and glanced around and gnawed the corner of his lip. Something was off.

Stepping away from the front door, Harry quietly began to follow the drive around the side of the building, searching for any signs of movement or disturbance. Around the right side of the house, the cobbled drive petered off into gravel that opened up into an expansive courtyard. To the far side were well-kept stables, the top - a dirt track that led to gated fields in the distance. Closest to Harry was a barn. The dim morning light cast a pristine glow over the scene. _Quite picturesque really_ , Harry thought. The typical country farmyard. Untouched. Undisturbed. Peaceful…quiet. The sense of wrong increased as Harry stood there observing the courtyard. His muscles began to tense, preparing for a fight. But nothing around him gave him a reason to.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

His breath was the only thing that moved, the steam puffs curled into the morning air. Very gently, Harry padded forward toward the barn, trying his best to not disturb the gravel beneath his feet. The crunch of the stones was deafening in the still landscape.

He couldn’t place what was wrong. It was just so…quiet.

Harry stopped and listened. His ears strained, seeking, searching. Nothing. The breeze was still. Not even a bird chirped its morning song. It was like the world held its breath and time had frozen at this moment, teetering on the edge of a precipice, waiting to see what way the fulcrum would fall.

Harry edged further forward, hunched over and braced, his wand at the ready. As he reached the barn, his eyes glanced at the darkened stables. He looked at the barn. Back to the stables. The barn doors were shut with what appeared to be a lock on them. The ground around them didn’t look too disturbed.

He shifted his trajectory and headed towards the stables. Something felt right. It descended on his shoulders, lowering them from their stressed hunched position. Harry adjusted his grip on his wand and stretched his neck, his eyes glancing from left to right, watching for any signs of movement, but refocusing always on the entryway ahead.

As he reached the stable door, the first thing he noticed was that it was partially open. The second was the smell coming from within. Sweet and bitter with an acrid film over the top.

 _This is not fine_.

Death, blood and fear.

Clenching his jaw, Harry tugged open the stable door and peered in.

“Lumos,” he muttered, the morning light was too weak to reach inside the room. As his wand flared to life with white light, Harry’s eyes fell upon the scene before him. The stable was empty of any animals, however, the hay that littered the floor was splattered with a large amount of darkened fluid. He stepped into the room, the acrid taste of fear heavy on his tongue. A feeder had been knocked over, its contents spilling onto the floor; several brooms and tools that seemed like they had been thrown, lay at odd angles either propped halfway down a wall or randomly in the middle of a walkway. Harry knelt over the nearest patch of darkened hay and dabbed his fingers through it. He rubbed his pads together and felt the silky viscosity of blood. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled the faint, metallic, irony scent. Whatever happened here, it had been recent – _the noise complaint!_ Harry continued to assess the area, careful to not disturb the evidence too much. He cast detection spells, searching for a magical signature but found none.

Perhaps this was a muggle issue? Had a break-in gone wrong? He had guessed that there was magical element somewhere – he had assumed the owners of the farm, considering that the case had come to the Auror office. But as he stood amongst the echoes of violence, Harry wasn’t so certain. Whatever had happened was bad, that much his instincts were telling him. But whether it was his jurisdiction, he wasn’t so sure.

**_CRACK_ **

“Nox”, Harry breathed as he immediately ducked down and raised his wand towards the door.

Someone had just apparated.

Harry could hear the crunch of gravel underfoot. At first, the steps started out certain and sure, but the closer they got to where Harry waited in the shadows, the more hesitant and light they became. Harry shifted, widening his stance. He inched forward, trying to gain a better look at the courtyard whilst still remaining hidden.

The footsteps paused just out of sight.

Nobody breathed.

Taking the final step, a tall figure stood in front of the door. Their features hidden by the shadows cast by the meagre dawn light.

“Petrificus totalus”, Harry snapped before the new arrival's long robe had a chance to still.

The figure **thwumped** as it fell back, gravel pellets hissing as they dispersed under the new weight. Harry straightened and stepped out from the shadows. With his wand still raised, he carefully stepped forward, his eyes on the horizon and the surrounding courtyard, seeking signs of movement. He was pretty certain that the new visitor had arrived alone, but he wanted to be sure.

Satisfied that they were safe considering the circumstances, Harry lowered his wand to the figure on the floor and looked down to meet the wide blue eyes of Theodore Nott.

*

**_07:15 am, 8th September 1999 - The Scottish Highlands_ **

**Squelch!** Ron paused as the cold liquid seeped into his boot. The familiar simmering fire in his chest, that had been his constant companion for the past five years, erupted yet again. He ground his teeth and inhaled forcefully through his nose in an attempt to force the molten vitriol back down his throat. He clenched and unclenched his hands and focused on the smell of ozone and dirt that pervaded his senses. Meditation techniques. He had scoffed at Hermione when she had suggested them a few months back and he wasn’t quite ready to admit that she had been right yet again, but here he was, tempering his breath, ‘ _taming his mind_ ’… He snorted at himself. Just a few more months and everything would be fine. He just needed to get to the end of the year. Initially, Ron had been excited about joining the Department of Magical Games and Sports. He had made the decision to follow his own path. He didn’t want to be an Auror, he’d done enough chasing dark wizards to last him a lifetime. He just wanted to enjoy the benefits of being part of the Golden Trio, have a quiet life, meet a nice girl, settle down, have a brood and always have excellent seats to watch Quidditch.

So far, nothing had gone to plan.

Sure, the media attention had been nice for a while, but when the Daily Prophet plastered his drunken antics on the front page. This had landed him one too many hangovers and several Howlers from his mother and fans who had been equally, if not more, disappointed in him. It was at this point that he decided that notoriety wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

As for a nice girl, he always thought that would have been Hermione. But again, once the dust from the Battle had been washed away and the light of a new morning put everything into stark contrast, he had realised that while he loved and admired that woman, she would have done his bloody head in as a girlfriend. And so again, he had decided that that relationship avenue wasn’t all he had envisioned it to be; though when he was honest with himself he acknowledged that the decision was mutual.

But to anyone who asked! Well, that’s a different story.

Finally, Quidditch. After everything, he had been offered a place in Auror training with Harry and Hermione, but like Hermione, he had realised that that was long behind him. She had elected to remain at school and had ended up doing research of some sort or another. Ron had had several departments approach him – the fame of the Golden Trio doing what it should – and he had finally elected for The Department of Magical Games and Sports. Easy job, he'd thought. Fun job, he'd thought. Good tickets at the stadium for the Quidditch World Cup… he'd thought.

Except he had to build the stadium first.

Well, not build it, but it was his job to scout for locations for the up and coming World Cup. The list of dos and don’ts was extensive. Disgustingly so. For instance: Paragraph 1, section 2, subsection F. i. noted that the placement of the stadium should not interfere with any muggle walkways, habitats or modes of travel. Subsection g of the aforementioned paragraph notes that if an area is not registered as any of the excluding demarcations, then the percentage of muggle travel through the location must fall below 24.76 per cent per annum. The problem that Ron and his team were finding this year, was that the places registered as possible locations – scenic enough to show off the British countryside in all its glory, whilst being large enough to host the event – was also being viewed, travelled through or appropriated by the muggles, who were listed as being peculiarly nomadic this year. As a consequence, the Department of Muggle Relations and the Department of Muggle Liaisons had been brought on to the committee to help navigate this minefield. Ron had been assigned to work with Daphne Greengrass from DML. Though he had held his prejudices at first and was thoroughly confused by her choice of employment, she had confessed to completely wanting to reverse the pureblood prejudices against muggles. Hence she found herself working where she did. She, along with her colleagues, remarked after the peculiarity of the Muggle activity, but as of yet, had no means to resolve the problem.

If that wasn’t enough, the locations that weren’t being monopolised by muggles were marked as either protected lands under Paragraph 9, subsection D . iii as under hallowed or religious grounds, or were earmarked under Paragraph 3, subsection A . i. the habitat, breeding grounds or migration pathways for magical and/or intelligent creatures. As far as hallowed or religious grounds go, there wasn’t anything that could be done there. But creature habitats? Ron and Daphne were working from the newest iteration of a guidance map of registered protected grounds by the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, completed at the beginning of the year. However, the further along they got, the more they realised that centaur herds, nymphs, disirs and so on, weren’t exactly where they were supposed to be. Infact, they were nowhere near where the map said they would be. More to the point, random skirmishes and mini-territorial disputes were happening all over the country - again, more so than usual. As a result, Hannah Abbott and her team joined the committee from the DRCMC.

Over the months of mayhem and chaos, of finger-pointing and blame, of flared tempers, a lot of alcohol and just a few promises of violence, Ron’s team had finally found a location. It was perfect. Nestled deep in the Scottish Highlands lay an area so remote, that Muggles nearly never strayed that far in without reason. So the percentage of Muggle travel was 13 per cent. After extensive research and weeks in the crypt archives in the bowels of the Ministry, this particular area wasn’t claimed to be religious or hallowed in any way shape or form. The cherry of the proverbial cake being, this area was so remote and out of the way, that it was not part of any migration paths, it wasn’t home to or holiday destination or spa locale of any magical creature.

Every box had been ticked.

Every form signed.

Every waver double-checked and checked again.

All that was left was to get the final signature from Amelia Wood, the Department head, to begin construction.

Which is why 'alarmed' didn’t begin to cover how Ron felt when Hannah woke him at 7 am and forced him from his bed, to apparate to the site, without giving any indication as to why, only that he had to see it to believe it.

Gathering himself, Ron shook out his boot slightly, popped his collar against the thin Highland, early morning mist, and trudged through the softened marsh ground. Hannah was just a couple steps ahead of him, eager to get to the hill that would provide a good eyeline of the area. A deep and guttural roar split the early morning silence and echoed from the surrounding landscape. Ron and Hannah halted in their tracks. Hannah peered over her shoulder, the wince evident on her features. Ron's reality morphed into a shade of dumbness as shock took over his senses.

 _It’s nothing_ , he thought. _Maybe a passing bear…in the Scottish Highlands…somehow?_

After so many months of bureaucracy and poor communication, Ron had had enough. If a bear thought that it would settle in the Scottish Highlands now, after all these years of extinction in his spot, then it had another thing coming.

Ploughing ahead of Hannah, Ron took to the incline of the hill with fierce determination. The fire that he had barely been keeping a grasp on was out in full force. He was about to punch a bear in the face. He did not care. He was done. So done. Not today. No thank you!

As Ron crested the tip of the hill, his determined stride faltered. Hannah raced up behind him, squelching in the soft earth as she went. The land before him was unrecognisable. This was a dream. A very bad dream. A nightmare, some might say. He turned to Hannah, disbelief evident on his face.

“Wha-”, he croaked, turning back to the land. He pointed in its direction as he rounded on Hannah again. “I don’t understand.” He whimpered, turning back to view the valley beneath him.

Hannah gently placed her hand his arm to lower it, her fingers curled into his elbow, hugging him protectively to her.

“There’s been a skirmish,” she said softly, “Centaurs… and I think Yetis.” For as far as the eye could see, bodies were lying injured or dying. Scuffles were breaking out here and there amongst those tending to the wounded of their kind.

“Yeti… but…I don’t understand. Why here? How did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” Hannah spoke softly with reverence as if to not disturb the scene below. “The best assumption is that it’s more of the same; both weren’t following their usual migrating patterns and their paths crossed.” Her face was sombre as she looked up to Ron. “Though honestly? I didn’t even realise yetis migrated.”

On the one hand, Ron could appreciate the brevity of the moment, but he couldn’t stop himself from getting stuck on one particular point.

“Migrating? So, they’re not stopping here no?”

“Well, yes tha-”

“Great so all we need to do is make sure they settle whatever this is and move them along?”

“That could work bu-”

“Excellent, thank Merlin! I really…”

“Ron”

“thought we were done for then…”

“Ron!”

“I mean, the deadline’s soon. It’s the eighth today so we really don’t have to time to find anywhere else…”

“RON!”

“Wha?”

“It’s not going to be that easy, we can’t just-”

“Of course you can! I mean we. We’re a team. Daphne too. We can do this!” With a last glance over towards the horizon and a brief nod to himself, Ron turned to head back down the hill, a plan formulating in his mind to call the committee to meet. The fire burned in his belly, the volcanic vitriol bubbling under the surface. By the end of the day, there will be a strategy in place. They will do this. They will resolve this situation. The papers will be signed. The stadium will be built.

He would. Watch. Quidditch.

Or Morgana help them, he would go to war. 

*

**_06:00 am, 8th of September 1999 - Picadilly Circus, London, UK_**

_It’ll be easy, he said. Won’t take long at all, he said. Fuck him._

Theodore Nott cupped a hand around the flame of a muggle lighter, igniting his cigarette. He stepped around the early morning commuters and the drunkards from the previous night of partying who had yet to realise that they should have called it quits six tequilas ago. The razzle-dazzle of Piccadilly Circus threw the pre-dawn world into a strange ethereal muggle wonderland of sterile colour with a hint of the insane. The flashing lights from the towering boards elongated the shadows of the stumbling people around him. The traffic bustled past: obnoxious red buses grumbled through the Circus, heaving their full bodies along in a uniform fleet.

He paused a moment, taking a long drag of his cigarette, the noxious gas filled his expanding lungs until they burned for release. He threw head back and closed his eyes as he blew out the steady stream in the blackened night, taking a moment of quietude amongst the chaos around him. Theo enjoyed muggle London as much as the next person when he was imbibing in the drinks or drugs. He did not, however, appreciate its particular flavour of precise carnage when he was meant to be working. His job was difficult enough without adding in whatever the fuck was in the air on that day.

Shuffling his shoulders, Theo peered around him. He was stood directly centre of Piccadilly Circus. Life continued to amble by around him, parting as seamlessly as water does around buoys. He needed a direction. He needed a plan. The six places he had been that night had come up bust. Usually in his line of work, there were setbacks, rumours were never reliable. However, after a couple of false starts, whatever Theo had been looking for would be where it was said to be. Naturally spread rumours were reincarnations of the same truth. But when one found themselves chasing their own tail, hunting down lead after lead, constantly coming up short with vacant or abandoned locations – none of which baring even a hint at housing the thing that one was looking for – one could not help but wonder whether one was being made to look like a fucking fool.

Or someone didn’t want the thing to be found and was deliberately feeding out false rumours.

Regardless, Theo felt like a fool so the point was left to stand. He was pissed and it was personal. He was good at his job. He was also very petty. He had a reputation to uphold and a lady he really didn’t want to let down.

After the war, he had given escapism a real go of it, drowning himself in his deceased fuckwit of a father’s liquor cabinet whilst getting lost within the smoke of his hookah pipe. It wasn’t until Pansy quite literally dragged him out by his collar and threw him in an offensively cold shower, did he wake up to the new dismal post-war reality. That was the moment that the three of them, Parkinson, Zabini and himself went into business with one another. Blaise had inherited an establishment from one his ‘mysteriously and suddenly’ deceased step-fathers. He had turned it into a respected upper-class cocktail bar in Soho called Soteria. This became the meeting ground for their clientele who placed orders from a specialised menu under the bar: one Fabergé egg locked away in the Winter Palace in St Petersburg; an original Monet trussed up in the Venetian Guggenheim; the disappearance of one Lady of the Night who knew too much. As it was, Theo quickly came to realise that while he was a rather good art thief, he didn’t have the stomach for all that barbaric nonsense. Pansy did though. She had blossomed into quite the deadly black Calla Lily since this new business venture began. Meanwhile, Blaise had grown into his own, being the charismatic front-of-house, legitimate business owner that instilled such confidence in every handshake that it kept the clients coming back for more.

Of course, the three of them couldn’t pull off their feats alone. They had spent many months building a network of ‘Little Mice’, that Blaise lovingly referred to them as. Having semi-adopted many orphaned and homeless children displaced from the war – muggle and magical – the Little Mice ran amongst the streets, listening for rumours on whatever was requested. Blaise ensured that they had food and whatever they needed.

Pansy made sure that they had gloves and no holes in their clothes. She was a bleeding heart under her ice queen exterior.

The three of them had bought a penthouse complex in central muggle London. None of them could stand to be in their familial homes anymore. They had all assumed in an unspoken agreement, that the extra bedroom suite was Draco’s when he eventually finished his sentence.

Theo dropped the remaining butt of his cigarette and ground it under his heel. None of the rumours that the Little Mice had brought back had panned out so far. Which meant either: what he was looking for didn’t exist or somebody didn’t want it found. The difference about this job was that it wasn’t his usual. The client wasn’t a client per se. One of the reasons why Blaise’s club had done so well, was the tasteful dancers who entertained the guests. When the doors first opened all those months ago, a young woman walked in seeking work. Thyrra Fallis turned out to be an intoxicating dancer, partly because she was Selkie, but that was neither here nor there. She was a favourite and a sweetheart. She, like the rest of them, had fallen on hard times, and as was the theme, Blaise adopted her too. It had taken her a while to relax in the security that the trio had tried to provide for her, but finally she seemed to have done it. This led to two days ago when she had asked whether it would be possible for Theo to keep an eye out for her horse.

Yes.

Horse.

Theo lit another cigarette.

She had approached him at the bar, all nervous and coquettish in that way that had men throwing themselves to her feet to save her from walking on the floor. She couldn’t help it, that was just the way she was, but regardless, Theo could not have said no to her, even under threat of Cruciatus. He had been trying too hard to get the skittish woman to relax and here she was placing her trust in him. Of course, he would do her this favour… even if it was a horse. He’d butchered the pronunciation of its name when he’d sent the Mice off, “Keffle doower”. Their responding blinks had told him loud and clear how stupid he was. But off they had scurried (after speaking to Thyrra to get the correct pronunciation).

That had led him to the merry adventure of the past couple of days. At first, he'd thought it was the pronunciation issue or the fact that he was looking for a horse in central London. But the Mice were good at what they did. Which is why Theo stood in the centre of Piccadilly Circus at 6 am whilst the morning traffic picked up around him, trying to see what had gone wrong, to find a way forward. He felt morally obligated to not let Thyrra down. If that meant a fucking pony, then he would get the fucking pony…Somehow.

In the scenario where an object was being hidden, and false trails were being laid, it was usually a case of trying to find the weak spot in the chain. Human error. The general populous is notoriously bad at lying, considering how often the average human would do it. So, more often than not, the truth would be buried in the lie, either a correct moving date but wrong location; right location, wrong moving date. That sort of thing.

Theo popped his collar as he slipped into the flow of foot traffic, skipping across the road and to duck into the first darkened alley. The gait of his step lengthened with surety and his wand dropped from up his sleeve. Without a pause and with a flick of the wrist, the resounding **CRACK** reverberated down the alley as he disappeared.

Moments later, he strode out into the Edwardian sitting room of Skeel Library. The building was currently on sale and so empty of all tenants. Except, when Theo had stopped by earlier that night, there had been a cat. A cat with judgmental eyes and an accusing tail. But a cat nonetheless. A cat who looked fed and loved. A cat fitting of an Edwardian mansion and its owners.

But there were no owners.

Earlier, Theo had chalked it up to the fact that people with money had eccentricities, muggle or magical - he would know. So it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine that the cat was considered to be a feature of the house. But somebody was feeding the cat.

One of the Mice – Charlie – had heard that the stables at Skeel Library had recently been filled with newly acquired horses.

Except, Skeel Library didn’t have stables. Ergo, there were no horses.

So the question remained, why mention Skeel Library? It was obviously a piss poor attempt at a lie. This meant that the truth was hidden there somewhere.

Plus, Theo wanted the cat.

Dancing through the sofas and skirting the Grand Piano, Theo went through the door at the far end of the room and stalked down the darkened corridor, the sound of his dragonhide boots crisply hitting the wooden panels, fractured the stillness of the house.

“Lumos”, he muttered, as he sidestepped to avoid the table he was about to crash into - the vase ontop wobbled in place before settling. Continuing forward, he scanned his surroundings, seeking any sign of disturbance. The corridor opened up into a grand entryway. A huge staircase sat centre stage, splitting halfway up to circle back on itself. Off to his immediate right was a closed door. Choosing up, he crept up the stairs, the light of his wand bounced off the gilded golden frames that housed unsettlingly frozen portraits of familiarly haughty aristocrats. He veered to the left and ducked down another darkened hall, half remembering from earlier that that way led to another greeting room where he last saw his future friend.

As he crossed the threshold, something skittered across the floor, throwing his wand light into a monstrously huge shadow across the room. Theo crept forward, peering in the direction that the crawling form had taken. Silver eyes reflected the lumos back at him from underneath an extravagant ottoman. Creeping closer, Theo knelt down and lowered his wand to see the ornery, black feline.

“Hi there.”

His black tail twitched in acknowledgement, his eyes wide and focused on Theo, his paws clasped before it as if it were a Sphinx in waiting.

“First of all, I’m Theo and we’re going to be friends.”

The cat's ear twitched.

“But that’s for later on in the agenda, right now I need your help finding a horse.”

The little black nose scrunched as it sounded a breath, almost a huff. Then he lifted a paw only for an alarmingly sizable shadow to scuttle out from underneath. Theo jumped back, stricken by the size of the spider, while the cat pounced after its prey, landing securely on top of the arachnid once again, before turning his attention back to Theo, a smug look etched into his feline features.

“Okay then, Renfield.”

There was no obvious sign of refusal so Theo ploughed on. He perched himself on the armchair opposite, his elbows on his knees, his wand pointed down between his legs.

“I have given you a name, you are now mine.” Silence came from his conversation partner. “To business then, have you seen a horse?”

Renfield sighed delicately. He lifted his paw slightly, enough fit his muzzle under to begin munching on the spider trapped beneath. Theo swallowed thickly in mild disgust. “Seriously guy, horse! About yay big,” he gestured vaguely above his head, “clip-clop, neigh and all that jazz”.

An unsettling crunch came from Renfield’s direction before he withdrew his muzzle with a satisfied gleam in his silver eyes. Trapped between his tiny fangs, dangled the body of the unseemly house spider.

“Yes, congratulations and I will leave you in peace to enjoy your dinner, but first. Horse.”

Renfield winked.

“Fine, no horse. What about people? Has anyone been here recently?”

Renfield stared at him, still as a macabre statue with the spider secure in his mouth. Theo ran a hand through his wavy hair and threw the cat his best beseeching look.

“Anyone other than me obviously.”

Renfield cocked his head as if in thought before he stood and stretched out his lithe body. Once completed, he assessed Theo under a cool gaze, the spider still eminently present. With a twitch of his tail, he sauntered toward the door, looking over his shoulder as he went as if beckoning Theo to follow.

And so, Theo got to feet and began the sedate tour of the manor house. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t convinced that the cat had understood a word he had said, after all, he was just a normal cat. However, he followed loyally behind, taking in the art and décor of the building as he went. Tasteful yet austere. Modern with a touch of gaud.

The sky outside the windows began to change with the morning light, a subtle pink turning to a deep red. His mother would have tutted disapprovingly at such a sight before pulling out her tarot cards. “ _Red sky in the morning, the spirit's warning,_ ” she would mutter. Theo had many a memory of her speaking of such doomsayer prophecies, her sickness marring the earliest of his childhood memories before she had croaked.

By the time they had passed through the library for the fourth time, he was trying to decide whether Renfield had never understood him at all or was just being a dick for the sake of it. On this pass through though, Renfield launched himself onto the writing desk that was tucked into the corner of the room between two towering bookcases. As he approached, Theo spotted that the desk was covered in a leather writing pad, to protect the wood beneath it from scratchings. He flicked his eyes toward Renfield who sat there with regal refinement meeting his gaze, hosting the spider still between his jaws like a horrific pacifier.

Theo moved his wand closer to the leather cover. In the sharp, white light, he could just about make out indentations of a loopy script. Pulling open one of the draws, he rifled for some paper and a pencil. Meanwhile, Renfield settled on the desk to finally dine on his prey. Ignoring the light crunching, Theo placed the paper over the pad and lightly scrubbed the pencil back and forth, a trick he picked up pre-war when his father would hold meetings at the house. He brought his wand closer and could make out: _The Mumbles F-rm. –urrey._ Shocked, Theo glanced at Renfield who had finished his dinner and watched on attentively, a rumbling purr coming from his chest, seemingly unaware of the rather large leg that poked out from the side of his mouth. The Mumbles was one of the first destinations Theo had checked. The little red brick farmhouse had been completely empty; the surrounding farm was just as pristine.

“I will be back for you, I promise, and I’ll give you all the spiders you want, you fucked up fella,” he said as he scratched Renfield behind the ears before stepping back and apparating away.

In the early morning light, the gravelled courtyard was the same as it was that last time Theo had been there. Untouched. Locked up barn. Perfectly flat gravel. Open stabl-

Theo set off towards the stables with a fierce determination. They were not the same as before. The last time he was here, he had marvelled at how idyllic the scene had been. So perfect, everything locked away, the birds singing in cacophony, the flowers swaying in the breeze.

Unease rested on his shoulders as the morning dew settled in his hair. He slowed his stride to a halt, his cloak rustling around his legs, as his breath steamed before him.

It was silent. There were no birds now. No morning song like one would expect.

Theo took the remaining steps toward the open doors, his wand clutched between his fingers. He had just enough time to acknowledge the pitch-black shadows within before he was struck in the chest. He felt his limbs snap to his sides, locked in place. The world began to tilt as he fell back, the sound of gravel scuttling across one another filled his ears.

His heart pounded in his chest.

Fear and dread suffused his mind and hummed through his body.

He couldn’t feel his wand; he wasn’t sure if he’d dropped it. He concentrated his best effort on moving just one finger.

The pad of soft footsteps approached his feet. From the angle he was at with eyes locked on the sky above, he couldn’t see who it was in his peripheral vision below.

That was until the messy black hair and ridiculously framed glasses of one Harry Potter appeared above him in all his scarlet Auror robed glory.

Fear and dread replaced with relief and resignation.

_Well, fuck._

*

_**07:10 am, 8th of September, 1999 - London Underground**. _

Christopher Howells gathered his keys from the entryway table, juggling them with the coffee and paper already in his hands as he opened the front door to his home. Placing the paper between his teeth, he secured the locks and twirled the Statue of Liberty keychain that had been a gift from his brother upon his most recent trip to New York City, before placing the jangling metal in his pocket. Removing the paper from between his teeth and sipping his coffee, as he took off down the street toward Charing Cross' underground entrance. His daily commute to work was the typical life of a Londoner, and now that the year was in its latter half, the commute meant leaving early before the sun had arisen, and leaving work after the sun had set for the night. Not that Christopher would complain. He had worked long and hard throughout university to get his position as a Doctor at London Bridge Hospital.

Didn’t mean he had to enjoy the commute though.

Descending into the depths of the underground, he acclimatised to the thick, heavy atmosphere of oil and grit. He kept to the left as he joined the flow of traffic. The array of suits, trainers and rucksacks in varying shades of grey and black created a fast-flowing stream that wound towards the platform.

Trotting to make the tube, Christopher congratulated himself quietly on making it before the doors closed. He sipped his coffee smugly as he propped himself against the wall, braced for the tube to take off; managing to catch the tube just-so always meant for a good day, regardless of the fact that the next one would follow two minutes later. It always held an element of kismet, like the chances of arriving at the station, at exactly the right moment to easily and smoothly step aboard without a hitch in your step meant that fate had a hand in your day. That the day would be a good day.

The Northern Line to Waterloo was respectably busy at 7:15 in the morning. The passengers aboard travelled quietly, their heads bowed over their phones or newspapers, their ears filled with headphones piping out their tinny tunes of choice. A brief pause at Embankment station, the tube lurched forward again and gambolled around the bend before it chattered toward Waterloo.

Christopher sipped his coffee and glanced the headline of the Guardian newspaper he carried: **Food stamp shortage and sickness on the rise – Orwellian prophecy come true?**

The tube slowed. The light of Waterloo station breached the windows of the carriage. Passengers milled on the platform, waiting patiently. Christopher stowed his newspaper under his arm and clutched his coffee to his chest. Just a quick journey up and then down the other side to hop on the Jubilee Line. Still feeling the luck of his fortunate timing, Christopher fancied himself a gambling man and challenged himself to make the switch in under the allotted two-minute tube arrival time.

The doors opened and he was off. He jogged lightly to the stairs, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His heart pounded healthily in his chest. Up the steps two at a time, across the corridor, down the other side. The tube for the Jubilee line was in front of him, the carriage doors open and welcoming.

Just before he could cross the threshold, the doors hissed shut, sealing the cabin, and the gears cranked to launch the tube down the tracks. Christopher trotted to a stop, as his eyes glanced up to check the board for the next arrival.

Two minutes.

Shaking his head slightly and smirking to himself, he pulled the newspaper from under his arm to continue reading the front-page article.

A commotion behind him disrupted the usual hubbub of the underground chatter enough to draw his attention. As he turned head, his eyes connected with the hard stare of another man who stood down the way. This man wore a strange, tarnished cloak, almost like he had just come from a roleplay event. Except his face was too serious, his gaze too cold, the lines around his mouth too determined.

Time slowed and Christopher experienced a strange out-of-body experience. Logically, there was nothing about this scene that screamed danger, his human conscious implored him to use its higher faculties. And yet, the instinctive animalistic fight or flight began and Christopher could not help but acknowledge that in this situation that he found himself, he was, at the very least a bystander, at most, prey.

He watched with rapt attention as the man in the cloak pulled a stick from his sleeve. He held it delicately and ardently between his fingertips as his wrist snapped to an uncomfortable angle. The man paused as he settled his shoulders as if he were about to conduct an orchestra, and grounded his stance as Christopher watched on. Every instinct in him was screaming to run and yet he was frozen, his attention completely ensnared on the hypnotic, strange man before him.

The man with the stick bowed his head slightly toward Christopher as if greeting him, before he began to mutter some words and swish the stick in his hands. Christopher observed, at first with confusion that quickly morphed into mounting terror. Trails of embers flowed from the tip of the stick, marking the jagged pathway of the wrist movement.

The final thing that Christopher saw before heat and flame overwhelmed him was a serene smile on the man’s face in sweet exaltation, as if he had finally relinquished a heavy burden.

*

**_07:30 am 8th of September, 1999 - The British Ministry_ **

Hermione Granger was late. She had slept right through her alarm, which while it was unusual for her to do so, was also telling of the fact that she was very much in need of a holiday. She bustled through her kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee in her travel mug and shoved a piece of toast, freshly-popped from the machine into her mouth - sans butter.

She immediately regretted this decision but didn’t have time to rectify it.

Checking she had her wand, she picked up the files that she had been reading before she had fallen asleep and drooled on them. With the toast slowly soddening between her teeth, she grasped a handful of floo powder.

Then she realised she had to remove the toast to speak.

“Ministry of Magic,” she rasped while she inspected the now floo covered toast as the flames engulfed her.

In the Ministry atrium, she joined the traffic of workers that headed toward the elevator banks.

_Probably shouldn’t eat it._

She wondered if anyone had ever done any research into the effects of consuming floo powder. She resolved to ask Francene the next time she was in the archives.

 _Dinner with Harry later._ Their Friday 'ritual not ritual', because neither of their jobs allowed for a stable social life. Though they had moved in together at Grimmauld Place after Hogwarts, Harry had become consumed with his Auror work since he started, which had made it ironically easier to perform her cover story: researcher of Magical Law and Advocacy. Of course, everyone had believed it, why wouldn’t Hermione Granger spend her life buried in books after all?

She took her place towards the back of an elevator after pressing the button for Level Nine.

After she had finished her final NEWT exam, Minerva had called her to her office, where she had come face to face with Kingsley Shacklebolt. Stood behind him was a tall, thin man with pinched features, alabaster skin and a crooked nose that Hermione had never seen before. But most notable of all was his pitch-black eyes that seemed to see straight through her.

“Miss Granger,” said Kingsley, grinning as he came forward to shake her hand, “I’d like to introduce you to Raine Willows.” His arm swept behind him as he gestured to the unmoving figure.

Subtly, Raine tipped his chin, bowing his head in greeting and with a soft voice he spoke: “It is an honour to meet you, Miss Granger.”

He had been hypnotic. Enticing yet terrifying. Calming yet every part of her had wanted to run away.

“Take a seat, Miss Granger,” said Kingsley, “we have a lot to talk about.”

The elevator doors opened and Hermione exited into the sleek black corridor, her cloak billowing as she went. She had been working in the Department of Mysteries for fourteen months. In that time, she had grown to respect Raine immensely.

And fear him.

But mainly respect.

She shook her head and she took a gulp of her coffee.

Hermione turned the corner to an adjacent corridor, the walls lined with heavy oak office doors. Usually, when she arrived, only a quarter of them would be open, with early starters like herself. Today most of them were open, except for Mallard and Tauris’ offices. The corridor was bustling with activity, people going to and from, papers in hand, memos flying overhead. Her office was at the end of the hall, the sight of her name in gold embossed on the panel never failed to fill her chest with a small amount of pride. Opening it, she breezed into the warm room. The walls were wood-panelled and lined with bookcases and lit with a low glow from the fireplace behind her desk, giving it a hearty, welcoming atmosphere; a stark juxtaposition to the lustrous corridor outside.

Hermione rounded the large mahogany desk and placed the files on the smooth surface before she collapsed into the chair. She puffed at the piece of hair that fell over her face before she spied the intray.

Two memos were waiting patiently.

She plucked at the off-white missive, spreading the folded parchment:

_Event at Azkaban at 03:15 am._

_Need for immediate investigation._

_Draco Lucius Malfoy (Prisoner number 4:44) undergone a physiological change._

_Cause – Unknown_

_Prognosis – Unknown_

_Signed_

_Byron Rook_

_07:22 am, 8 th September 1999_

Hermione read the memo a further three times before she placed it carefully on the desk. Her gaze caught the pile of files that she brought in with her. They would have to wait until this was seen to. Mechanically she stood, grabbing her travel mug.

Draco Malfoy.

She knew this was a bad idea. But the memo had arrived at her desk. She had to…

 _This is a bad idea_. Her feet took her numbly to the door.

She stopped.

She turned.

The pink memo.

She crossed the room and snatched it up, hoping it was anything that would delay what she knew would be an awful, terrible, rotten, idea. She fingered the memo open; the crackling of the fire was the only thing to be heard in the hushed room.

_Intelligence 07:05am_

_Imminent attack on muggle London._

_Location unknown – suspected targets containing a high volume of casualties. Possible commuter traffic. London underground._

_Targets of high interest: Waterloo Station; Piccadilly Station; Canary Wharf Station_

_Suspected magical assailant. Immediate attention required._

A knock at her door broke her reverie. She stared at Taliesin, her partner in research, who stood there, his mouth a grim line, his stocky shoulders tense.

“We gotta go lass,” his broad Yorkshire accent smoothed the words through her shocked state. “Five minutes ago, someone hit Waterloo. They need us on the scene for clean-up.”

Without hesitation, Hermione followed him out of the room. Behind her, she left the travel mug that she had dropped at some point of her reading of the pink memo, which now slowly seeped coffee onto the floor. On the desk lay to the two open memos, lit by the backdrop of the flickering fire. Their messages delivered, their journey had come to an end.

Their purpose evolved.

Their meaning transmuted to mark the day that everything changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> See you soon!


	3. The Eureka Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour my chickadees! I've had to split this chapter up, it just got way too long! I am floored by the feedback and support. Enjoy!
> 
> I appreciate those who have offered to proofread, you beautiful saints. I will most likely take you up on it at some point in the future when we really get going with the plot. (you may regret offering).

**_Charity_ ** _– Love means above anything else benevolence and gentleness towards what is failed, disgraced, broken, unappealing, angry and foul in other people and in ourselves. Love isn’t about an admiration for strength, it’s about directing sympathy in a most unexpected direction. That what is messed up, lost and in pieces, and at what might hate, resent and be frightened of. Anyone can express an interest in perfection. To love is to devote and active charity towards the mistakes and aberrations._

 **_Imagination_ ** _– To love with imagination is to look beneath the surface where there may be rage, cynicism, brittleness or transgression. And to picture the suffering and pain that got a person to this place. To love with imagination is to fill in the better reasons others are behaving as they are. Imaginative love knows that we are all somewhere desperate. It seeks out that desperation and treats it with sorrowful gentleness._

 **_Kindness_ ** _– In the denunciation of the evil of others there is precious little mercy and humility, tenderness or grace. It’s not enough to be right or just. To be kind is to know that everyone, even sinners deserve ongoing sympathy and mercy. It is never simply because someone is wrong that we have any right to cease showing them the greatest kindness._

 **_Forgiveness_ ** _– To forgive is to know that we are, in our own way, as guilty as the next person. Given what we all are, we have no option but to cut each other some slack. Of course, we have failed, been hasty or less than admirable, but that’s no reason to forever withhold love. We learn to forgive when we are no longer self-righteous. That is when we’re brave enough to fathom the darker sections of our own hearts._

 **_Loyalty_ ** _– To love means being loyal to people. This could be ourselves, even though the crowd no longer agrees. Outside the mob may be jeering, but we continue on the same side with steadfastness and an unbudgeable resilient faith._

 **_Generosity_ ** _–Love overflows. It isn’t about loving just one person. It encompasses the love of someone you’ve just met. A stranger in another land, of the earth, of plants, weevils, house bats, and that moth by the window that might be dead by nightfall._

 **_Patience_ ** _– We want others to meet our hopes right now. But true love means giving people the time to mature and develop. To go wrong, to wonder in another direction and not to shout them, but to give them every chance to grow at their own pace towards their better selves._

_\- The Ingredients of True Love._

**Chapter 3 - The Eureka Effect**

* * *

* * *

**_Some point in the afternoon, 8th of September, 1999 - Azkaban Prison, North Sea_ **

A crack of light. Blurred gold and harsh white.

Black.

A crack of light. Shadows swayed into vision.

Black.

Noises. Voices. A crack of light. A shadow loomed into focus. A masked face with darkened glasses.

Black.

_

A strand of lank hair delicately trailed down the severe cheekbones of Draco Malfoy. It took a while for him to realise that he had been staring out of the window slat in his cell in a catatonic state for a while. He blinked moisture into his dry eyes as his consciousness became suddenly aware of the rest of his body. He gasped, as the feeling of every nerve-ending screaming, begging for relief overwhelmed him. He scrunched his eyes and grit his teeth, his fingers fumbled for purchase on the bedding beneath him.

Something within him stirred.

 _This is...new_.

Draco’s worldview narrowed at that moment, his perception focused on the new foreign feeling. The Thing within him was alive. Using occlumency he withdrew, not wanting to disturb it, so that he could observe from a safe distance within his mind - much like one would with a wild animal. The Thing slithered after him. Somewhere in the recesses of his consciousness, he was aware that he should be much more alarmed than what he frlt. The Thing hesitated, not sure if to push forward. Draco retreated further, wrapping himself in the familiar blanket of fear. The Thing settled somewhere, at what felt like the base of his skull.

Stalemate.

Perhaps, Draco ruminated, he had been too quick in his metaphorical assessment. Here, wrapped within the safe confines of his blanket, he sensed the Thing was more akin to a puppy – a large, ancient puppy who had no business being where it was – but a puppy all the same. Though, there was a particular flavour that permeated his senses when he regarded The Thing. Ozone and something heavier. Something darker. Crisp and crackling like a chilled bottle of sharp white wine poured into crystal chalices in a thunderstorm… Regardless, he hoped that he was having a weird nightmare and that when he woke, all would be well within his cell.

After a while, Draco peeped out slowly from his numbness. The Thing didn’t seem to be going anywhere, as if it were patiently waiting for Draco to make the first move. Curiosity took over as he edged toward the Thing. Though it perked up at his approach, it made no move to meet him. Tentatively, Draco reached out, his consciousness brushing against the Thing.

Warmth.

Light.

Blinding pain.

Hunger.

Draco withdrew. He paused, collecting himself. Whatever it was, it felt right. It was big and new, old and scared, sinister and wild. But most of all, it was familiar. He braced himself and with a final heave, he closed the gap.

Lightning cracked and thunder rumbled.

Everything went black.

_

A cool, gentle pressure pressed against his forehead in repetitive, rhythmic motions. He cracked an eye and peered up at the tense face of his Mother. She caught his gaze and immediately hiccupped a sob, barely catching it in time with a delicately held silken handkerchief. Draco stared at her, taking in her features as she struggled to rein in her emotions. From the window behind her, the golden afternoon sun streamed in and served as Narcissa’s heavenly backdrop as she closed her eyes to collect herself in a divine vigil repose. Draco spied a few more white, grey hairs than he had noticed a few months ago; the creases around her eyes and the corners of her lips seemed more deep-set than he remembered. The deep purple shadows under eyes were usually glamoured and the sharpness of her cheekbones softened by blush. Today, his Mother looked exhausted, stricken and drained. Slowly, she opened her eyes again, her breath calmly controlled.

“How are you feeling?” she said softly as she gazed down upon him, her fingers continuing their ministrations on his forehead and into his hair. Draco heard his throat click as he swallowed, his dry tongue failing to properly wet his lips.

“Water?” he rasped. Narcissa pulled away and leaned behind her to pick up the Azkaban-issued iron tankard. Draco struggled to sit up; his chest felt too heavy like an extra weight lay on him, his arms felt as if they belonged to somebody else. He felt new in old skin, wrapped over hoary muscles and crumbling bones. He felt his Mother’s hand support him under his shoulders as she tipped the tankard to his chapped lips.

As the water trickled its cooling path down his throat, his conscious became all too aware of his ignited nerves. His mother’s hand on his shoulder felt like tiny pin-pricks of burning ice, the oppressively heavy deadness of the iron tankard against his lips created a discomfort that bordered on pain. Draco made sure he drained every drop before he fell back, as his mother’s hand slipped out quickly from under him to join the other that now twisted around her delicate handkerchief. He lay still a moment as his bones settled like the groaning bow of an old ship and watched dust motes glitter above in the alley of sunlight.

The rustle of his mother’s skirts as she shifted slightly, sounded deafening in the silent room.

“What happened?” The hoarseness of Draco’s voice brought him vivid memories of a scream – his scream - the night before. He raised a trembling hand to his throat and massaged it gently, as his gaze settled expectantly on the woman beside him.

“I’m so sor-”

“I didn’t ask for your apologies,” Draco’s hand travelled from his throat to push the hair back from his forehead. “What happened?”

Narcissa sat silently, her lips pursed, her silhouette still. The subtle shift of her shoulders was the only indicator of the sigh she drew. “You seem to have come into a creature inheritance darling.”

The words took a moment to process.

“Pardon?”

“The healers from St Mungo’s believe that to be the case though -”

“How?”

Narcissa paused, the muscles around her eyes tightening. “The Malfoy line carries Veela blood back for several generations. It’s been the best kept family secret since the thirteen hundreds.”

Draco chewed on that thought a moment while his senses tested the rest of his body. His legs ached as if they had run a marathon, his ribs groaned with every breath, his shoulders smarted from a strain he couldn’t place, but the most notable difference of all was the flavour of magic that coursed through his veins. Remarkably, he felt quite calm at his mother’s revelation, though that could be entirely due to how exhausted he was. He snorted indelicately as a wave of bitter humour washed over him as her words repeated on loop in his mind: _keep it light Draco._ Narcissa quirked an eyebrow at the noise.

“Indulge my tangential curiosity,” Draco rumbled, “but what the fuck has the past decade been about?”

Narcissa started, though he wasn’t sure if it was in response to what he said or the way he said it. His voice had held no malice, but the way his hushed timbre juxtaposed against the harsh words created an undercurrent of malevolence that he had perfected after years of being dragged up in his father’s shadow.

“Sanctimona Vincent Semper. Purity will always conquer, that’s how the old family motto goes right?” Draco felt his magic shift within him as if preparing to pounce. He flexed his hands, spreading the fingers as far as they would go, before curling them back in and letting them rest purposefully relaxed.

Narcissa looked on. The only sign of her discomfort was the barest change in her posture; her shoulders hunched minutely forward, to brace herself for an attack. “The issue of purity was with regard to the clear distinction between the magical and non-magical Draco, Veela are magical creatures.”

“ _That_ is bollocks,” Draco purred dangerously.

“No, I quite assure you they are,” Narcissa sniffed. Draco ignored her.

“You know as well as I, that the line was not magical and non-magical. How many creatures were killed on our grounds?” He intoned as his magic bristled further, causing a sudden surge of energy to pierce his fatigue. He shot up from his prone position and swung his legs out of his cot.

“Draco,” Narcissa’s tone was placating as she moved back to make room for him, “every family has its own secrets-”

“No matter how many times you employ that tactic Mother, sharing the blame doesn’t lessen your part in it. In fact,” he stood from the cot as the velvet words fell from his mouth, putting distance between his mother and himself as he stalked to the opposite wall. “In this instance, outing more people who perpetuated the conspiracy of purity makes the hypocrisy worse.” He rounded on the older woman, his shadow loomed over her like a heavy storm cloud as he stood under the window. “So really, tell me, what did we stand for? Because I didn’t know when he moved in and I sure as fuck don’t know now!”

Narcissa sat motionless, her eyes pained as she looked up to him. A crack appeared in the aristocratic veneer of denial.

“Distracting oneself from a painful topic does not dismiss the existence of the pain or the cause of it,” she evenly volleyed back, not breaking eye contact as she did. Draco scoffed as he watched her eyes begin to fill and as quickly as it came, the anger and predatory glee left him. His breath hissed out through his clenched teeth as he raised a hand to push his hair back.

Except.

As his hand came into his eye line, it was unrecognisable. Black, pointed, inch-long talons protruded from his nail beds. His long, thin fingers looked skeletal as the alabaster skin that stretched over his knuckles contrasted sharply with the noir tipped points.

_Well, that’s new._

Draco’s gaze met his mother’s through the gap between his fingers and a silent parlé was agreed upon.

“The healers are quite flummoxed,” Narcissa began; her eyes wandered over his clawed hand as he moved to sit on the cot beside her again. “For all intents and purposes, this is a creature inheritance event.”

“So what’s got their knickers in a twist then?”

Narcissa hitched a pointed eyebrow in dismissive admonishment. “From what I understood,” she continued, “they would usually expect an inheritance from a third or fourth generation. Not someone in your situation, who had an ancestor several centuries ago. And yet,” Draco watched as she searched his face for something. “So far, you are presenting as one would expect with a Veela inheritance. There is no other creature blood within you, therefore, the assumption is that this can only be a Veela inheritance. The extent to which you have inherited Veela traits is yet to be determined and will only be shown with time. Clearly, some sooner than others.”

Draco looked down at his hands and turned them over to watch the sunlight dance along the obsidian ridges. _Veela…_ Draco swirled the word around his mind, chewing on it, tasting it. In one sense, he supposed, he was different than yesterday. There was no denying that. He leant forward, leaning his elbows on his knees as he continued to examine his hands. A piece of platinum hair fell across his brow as he shifted his shoulders, trying to relieve them from a phantom weight they carried. The healer’s diagnosis was logical in the face of illogical facts. And yet… _Veela._ His chest rumbled a baritone husk as he released a heavy sigh; the Thing – his new magic he realised - shifted within him, like an autumn breeze making copper leaves dance in its wake. A slight shudder ran through him as Draco threw a subtle smirk toward his mother to see if she had heard it too. Her features remained passive and to an untrained eye would have appeared unruffled. However, her knuckles were a distinct shade of bone-white as they wrangled the now ruined kerchief in her hands and she had grown impossibly still, not to be disturbed by a whisper of breath.

“You are, and always will be, my son Draco.”

The last wisp of anger was evaporated and Draco deflated so suddenly that he would he have toppled to the floor had Narcissa not caught his broad shoulders with her small frame. Gently she leaned him back till his head rested on the cool stone wall behind him. The deadness he felt earlier in the iron tankard seeped into his back through the grey brick. He watched as Narcissa gathered the blanket and soothed it over his lap. Very rarely in his life had he witnessed his mother’s maternal instincts; that nurturing novelty had been left to the various Nannies that he had had. The last time he remembered her fussing so, was when he had fallen from his broom and broken his arm when he was very young. Of course, it had been healed instantly, but to a small child, pain and fear were the deepest cuts of all and couldn’t be fixed with a twist of a wand. Narcissa had soothed his hair and whispered calming noises, gently thumbed his tears away till he had smiled. And then, if memory served him correctly, they had hidden away in the kitchens and eaten bowls of apple and cinnamon ice cream.

Draco suddenly felt very young in a body he didn’t recognise as he looked at hands that weren’t his. He marvelled at them once again; the sharp, black talons glinted against with the aged, greyed lines of the Dark Mark on his forearm. His chest hollowed as he took in the ensemble; his entire identity narrowed to this one visage. His occlumency walls strained under the weight of the memories imprisoned within them. Draco sharply inhaled and clenched his fists.

_Keep it light Draco._

“So what happens next?” he said, meeting his mother’s eyes. A single tear had tracked down her sunken cheek as she had watched him. She held his gaze a moment longer before she visibly shook off whatever thought was in her mind.

“The prison has had to inform the Ministry of course, and I have been told they will be sending a representative at some point today. You’ll be under the care of healers from St Mungos and they’ll be looking in on you periodically to monitor any progress. Other than that, this changes nothing.” A sudden fierceness sharpened her aristocratic features. “But do know I shall be owling Hedgley as soon as I’m back at the Manor. A case must be made for you to finish your sentence at home.”

“Mother…”

“No Draco, I won’t hear it! I’ve had enough of their silly little games. They can play politics with other people’s lives. You owe them nothing and that is final!”

Draco heaved a sigh. This was an argument they had had many times before, it was the only time his mother acknowledged where they were.

“Mother -”

“I said enough!” Narcissa’s voice reverberated off the stone walls of the cell before silence overwhelmed the strained atmosphere once again.

Draco turned his attention to the window slat. During their conversation, the sky had become full with thick storm clouds, oppressive with rain yet to fall. He watched the textures slowly fluctuate as they heaved in wind he couldn’t feel. He imagined what the sea below must look like; would it be still, the quiet before the storm, or would it be writhing and angry, building its temper like its counterpart above? He imagined what it would be like to stand on an edge of a peer in this weather, somewhere far, far away with no walls, no Veela and no Dark Mark. The cold air biting and flicking his hair this way and that, the sea salt spray lashing at his exposed skin. The first drop of ice-cold rain against his forehead. The space to spread his arms for as far as the eye could see, as the clouds released their burden down on the world while the waves surged up to meet it. The wind so playfully whipping the chaos into a frenzy; its joyful nature would dance amongst the clouds before diving down to froth the waves. And there Draco would stand, on the edge of his peer, bearing witness to the world’s orchestral cacophony as it came to life.

A knock at the cell door startled him back to his reality. It took a moment for him to orient himself within the claustrophobic confines of his four walls. Narcissa rose to greet whoever was at the door as Draco blinked imagined salt spray from his eyes.

“Mrs Malfoy, the Ministry representative is here with Healer Morin.” Draco looked up as one of the prison guards dipped his chin in deference to Narcissa before moving aside to make room for a tall, greying man in green scrubs to enter the room.

“Mr Malfoy, good to see you’re awake. I’m Healer Morin, we just have a few questions…”

Whatever the man said next was drowned out by the deafening thunder of whooshing blood in Draco’s ears. Behind the man, a smaller figure had stepped in, bearing a face he hadn’t seen since the last nightmare he’d had. Hermione Granger stood in his cell, meeting his stare with a set jaw in open defiance. Her face had always been angular and yet it seemed to have lost the softness of childhood that he hadn’t realised it had possessed. Her hair, that had always been her crown and glory, was pulled back into a chic chignon with artful tendrils that framed her face. Her eyes had always been a fascination to him; they were a shade of golden honey that was so expressive, that it had been possible intuit when the Gryffindor princess’ fire had been stoked. He had spent many an hour of mind-numbing lessons watching the embers in her eyes blaze molten just before her hand would shoot into the air, or when Potter and Weasel had said something dumb or funny – both had had the same response. Thus, he had grown to take bittersweet satisfaction in watching that fire extinguish when her eyes fell upon him. This moment was no different. The gold of her iris’ held the familiar dull hue that characterised many of his memories from school.

_Something’s different…_

“Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes?” The room came back into focus as Draco’s attention snapped to the Healer.

“Are you feeling well?” The Healer’s brow creased in consternation. Draco wracked his brain for his name, he was sure it had been said.

“Fine as can be I suppose.” _Morvin? Martin?_

“I see you have a physical manifestation?”

“Pardon?” _Mason? Mellard? No, definitely not that… what is she doing here?_

“Your fingers Mr Malfoy,” the Healer gestured with an obvious nod of his head. Draco looked at his hands and started. He’d forgotten about the small issue of his bad manicure.

_Moron?_

“May I take a look?”

_Why would anyone name their child moron?_

“Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“May I take a look at your hands?” The healer stepped forward, his features set with concern.

_Mother should have called me moron._

Draco presented his hands to the healer, who carefully grasped them as he leaned in for a closer look. _Mervin? Morvin? Merlin? Why is she here?_

The faint smell of burnt ash reached his nose. _Morgan? Why is she here?_

Draco focused on the man in front of him who was running a finger over the points of his talons. He felt the walls of his mind bow under the fatigue of keeping them strong. In the recesses of his conscious, he was aware that he was panicking. The dull gold. The fear. The scream.

_Paul?_

_Not even close._ His breath increased as he focused on a spot above the Healer’s shoulder. _What is she doing here?_

Burnt ash and sea salt.

 _Melon?_ He looked to the window slat. The clouds had grown darker. _Melon, really? What is she –_

“Healer Morin tells me that there is Veela in the Malfoy line, is that correct Mrs Malfoy?” The sound of her voice in the confines of Draco’s four walls sent of fission electric down his spine. _Morin!_ He could hear the melodic rise and fall of his mother’s voice, though the words were indefinable. _Why is she here?_

Healer Morin was saying something as he applied pressure to the tips of his fingers, and it was all Draco could do to nod dumbly in acknowledgement – though what he was acknowledging, was beyond him.

“I see, so is there any indication why there is a creature inheritance after all this time?” Granger’s voice hadn’t changed. Still crisp and to the fact. Still cold. But when every other voice in the room sounded as if they were underwater, her voice was an anchor against the crashing waves of the heartbeat in his ears.

“Do you have any hypotheses so far?” she said, responding to Morin he assumed.

Burnt ash, sea salt and… nutmeg.

Draco’s magic trembled for the first time in a while. Nutmeg was her. He used to get whiffs of it when she’d flounce through the corridors, her mane bouncing with each swotty step.

“But how can that be?” Though he resented her frost, he was a starving man for its cooling balm. Another fission ran down his spine and his magic stirred again. Electric spread through his veins and splintered like a crack of lighting. The waves in his ears grew louder, the swell of his breath grew steeper as a new well of need grew deeper. A familiar feeling of a yawning maw snapped from within him and a hunger rattled his aching bones.

“When will we know?” Without moving his head from Morin, his eyes searched for her under his lashes.

Granger was stood just in from the doorway. Her posture was relaxed, more so than he could ever recall her being in school.

Everything quietened.

Still.

The calm before the storm.

Draco was aware that there were other voices in the room, though none of the words reached him as he feasted hungrily on the sight of her. Her eyes were alive with flickering flame as she followed the conversation between his mother and Morin. His magic – the Thing - pulled, as if urging him closer. The maw groaned for something… Draco took in her features. They were delicate as if carved into porcelain by a renaissance sculptor of olde. There were purple shadows under her eyes that were accentuated by a smudge of black across her jaw. _Ash?_

Granger’s eyes flicked to him and he watched as the flame was immediately snuffed out, only to reignite moments later as she returned her attention to the speakers in the room.

_Fuck._

It was in that moment, that Draco’s world tilted on its axis. The building storm within him simultaneously raged and quietened, like a more finely focused point of chaos. The hunger he felt ceased to be a broad and far-reaching ache, but a high-pitched pang of need. Though he didn’t know academically then, the slightest thing about the changes happening within his body, he knew instinctively what had occurred. He was hers. This woman, Hermione Granger. He was hers, as much as she was his.

Granger’s gaze landed on him again, and again Draco witnessed the molten honey cool to dull gold, before swirling to life as she moved on. Except this time, Draco couldn’t hide behind the bittersweet lie he had told himself for so many years. He had done that. He had done that to her. He had cultivated near enough a decade of his life to extinguishing that flame. But at that moment, the final knell was rung by the universe and whatever powers that dear old Mad Trelawney had toted, sealed him in his tomb. There, within his four walls, karma kicked him squarely in the gut. Quietly, a pang of hollow misery spread through his chest, constricting his quivering lungs as he tried to draw his breath.

Draco felt the coldness of her watch travel over him momentarily, before moving away again. He turned his forearm, hiding the ugly greyed mark. He didn’t want Granger to have to see it after everything he and it had done to her. She must have been reminded enough already by the very fact that she was standing in the doorway of his Death Eater mausoleum. She would never be happy in his presence, he would always extinguish her fire and she always smiled when she burned brightly.

Another knell echoed through the cavernous ache in his chest.

Instinctively he felt that Granger’s happiness was his responsibility. The future would be easy: he would merely have to remain a distance from her. Which was incredibly fortuitous considering his space was usually locked behind a big iron door. But now, when she was here, there wasn’t a lot he could do other than try to will himself out of existence. Or pray for a wandless invisibility spell perhaps?

A calloused hand rested on his forearm. Draco’s head snapped up, focusing on Healer Morin.

“I said, you need a lot of rest and nutrients, Mr Malfoy. I’ll be speaking to the guards to make sure your meals are supplemented with the right potions that might alleviate any problematic side effects of your confinement. Do you have any questions for now?” Morin’s kind eyes searched Draco’s face. The healer was an older gentleman, greying at his temples. His eyes were kind like he seemed to genuinely care. Draco worked to swallow repetitively past the lump that had formed in his throat. He opened his mouth but his voice rasped with disuse. He shook his head quickly instead, not wanting to draw any further attention to himself.

“Okay then,” Morin patted his arm, “just let the guards know if any come up before I see you again, and they’ll pass them on.” Draco nodded in affirmation, savouring the kindness of the man’s tone. Morin stood and smiled slightly down at him before turning to talk to Narcissa.

It would only be a matter of moments before she left.

She would leave, the door would lock behind her, her flame would reignite and she would smile.

Draco bit his lip and swallowed heavily, he took a measured breath to fill his shuddering lungs. He had moments, if that, before what was _his_ , would leave. And her eyes would turn to molten honey.

Without moving his body from its hunched position, he peaked at her from the corner of his eye. Granger’s posture was poised and strong, her shoulders back, her neck long. She had become a woman befit of the crown she’d always held. Her eyes danced between Morin and Narcissa, swirling with warmth. She was thinking, seconds away from answering a question that had been asked.

“Thank you for your time Mrs Malfoy,” Granger spoke, a kind smile on her lips. She began to turn away, her eyes travelling over Draco one final time, and again, he watched their hue dull before spluttering to life once more as she faced the corridor. He watched her stroll away. He noted her walk was markedly different from the flouncing days. Now she prowled, he thought, every movement purposeful. He realised that she wasn’t as calm and relaxed as she had portrayed herself to be. She was just far more in control.

The heavy iron door crept into view, breaking his line of sight from her retreating form before the sound of the lock falling into place severed the connection entirely.

Draco stared at the floor where she’d stood. His magic, his soul, his being felt entirely empty and full of pain. He was calm with defeat and impassioned with fury. And he was bitter, confused and done.

A gentle pressure touched the back his hand.

“What happened?” Narcissa’s voice was soft in the deafening silence. Draco’s swallowed against the rise of anguish in his throat at hearing his mother’s voice. A knock at the door disturbed the reverie.

“One minute Mrs Malfoy,” called a guard from the other side.

A brick crumbled from walls within his mind.

He swallowed again and cleared his throat. “I need…” He forced his lungs to suck in air. “I need you to find out all that you can about Veela traits. What am I potentially going to be experiencing etcetera. Anything you can find.”

“Is there anything in particular you wish for me to focus on to start with?” she asked quietly. Another sombre wave filled his throat which he gruffed to clear.

“I need you to see what the situation is in terms of… I don’t know.” Draco searched for a word to define his instinctive need. “A person.” Narcissa tilted her head in confusion. “A another person, separate to the Veela but… theirs?” He looked up into his mother’s face, imploring her to understand what he'd left unsaid. He watched as comprehension dawned behind her eyes.

Another knock before the door swung open. Narcissa looked at him a final time before she nodded in understanding. She leant forward, kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair one final time.

“I love you, my dear boy.” And with the last rustle of her skirts, she too disappeared behind the heavy iron door.

Finally, he was alone.

Another brick crumbled.

He was Veela.

A brick clattered as it landed amongst the growing pile.

He was fucked.

Like a dam bursting its banks, his walls fell, and his consciousness drowned in the echoes of her scream and molten honey. 

*

_**Mid-Morning, 8th of September, 1999 - Department of Magical Law Enforcement, British Ministry**. _

“Finite incantatem”

“Potter what the fuck are you -”

“Silencio.”

Harry flicked his wand and the detention bindings wrapped around Nott’s wrists. He took a measured breath as he removed his cloak from his shoulders and draped it over the back of the chair opposite from where Nott sat.

Getting the man back from the farm had been more difficult than he had originally anticipated. The moment he had apparated back into the office, supporting his frozen levitating charge, he had been set upon by a number of his colleagues who asked way too many questions to be considered appropriate for a lobby setting. Then Harry had run into Simpkins, Robards’ assistant whom, not only, possessed an unfortunate nasal quality to his voice but also had a reputation of having an inconvenient habit of sticking his unattractively hooked nose where it had no business being. And so Simpkins had proceeded to try and tell Harry all the reasons he firstly could not arrest Nott, (regardless of the fact that he had zero authority over Auror activities). Harry had continued on, blithely ignoring the grating tones of the insipid man, while he then secondly tried to block Harry from using any of the interrogation rooms, citing the absolute and detrimental need for paperwork, forms and “obligatory” signatures. At the time, Harry had been so focused on getting to the interrogation rooms that he had dismissed Simpkins’ snivelling as an unfounded annoyance, but now that he had Nott bound to an interrogation table in room two, several hours later, he wasn’t as confident. It could be just as likely that Simpkins had merely quoted the unnecessary and convoluted bureaucratic bollocks that acted as scum, clogging up the cogs in the behemoth governmental body that was the Ministry.

Either way, Harry had ignored him and now was sat where he was in the situation he was in feeling very much like a cat who caught a canary. For the first time since becoming an Auror, he could smell the enticing trails of blood in the water. He could feel it in his bones. Harry’s body was singing, despite his lack of sleep. He was alive!

Emerald eyes met blue as Harry stared at Nott across the table. He had a vague memory of how Nott had been at Hogwarts; a pureblood too obsessed with his own self-preservation that he had never really committed to anything. Nott had been haughty in his gangly body, awkward with a height that didn’t suit his stature. His face had been dark and skewed with sneering malice in Malfoy’s shadow. He had always been there but had never had the backbone to take centre stage. Harry could give Malfoy some credit there; in a twisted way, at least he been brave enough to say some of the diatribe he had spouted to Harry’s face.

Harry took a moment to compare his memory of the boy to the man who sat across from him. The most obvious difference being that Nott had grown into his body. Instead of the awkward skinny teenager, the man had filled out, the body moving under his clothes was lithe and strong. Nott sat with the quiet confidence that one often associated with the upper class, that came from the knowledge that every room they resided in, is a room that they owned. Now that Nott’s features weren’t contorted with hatred, Harry could appreciate that the combination of the high cheekbones, the strong jaw and the long straight nose were …objectively appealing. The slight arc of the perfectly carved, quirked eyebrow and the way the man casually leant in his chair gave him an air of entitlement and arrogance that set Harry’s teeth on edge.

The tension in the room mounted as they continued to size each other up. The silence between them became so laden with the heaviness of memories, that it took Harry a moment to realise where he was and remember the reason why he found himself analysing Theodore Nott’s face in the first place.

“Finite,” Harry had to wilfully suppress a wince as the tension tangibly snapped at the sound of his croaking voice vanquishing the silencing charm. “Why were you there?”

“Why were _you_ there?” Nott shot back, a glimmer of a sneer rippled across his face.

“Really, that’s the way you want to go? You’ve been arrested and that's the way you want to start?” Harry leant away from the table and spread his hands on the flat surface, his eyebrows raised with incredulity.

“Well I have many other questions, which now that you mention it, why have you arrested me Potter? Last I checked, it wasn’t against the law to take a morning stroll?” Nott’s mouth flipped into a smirk while his posture moulded into a more innocuous form, his shoulders rounded forwards, his head tilted to one side. Harry watched the change, noting the subtle differences to the overall visage. Had he not been in possession of a file that sat in his draw which held a list of crimes Nott was suspected of, he would have been inclined to fall for the innocent performance. But as he watched the man before him adjust the angle of his chin to a minute degree to give him a more cowed expression, while he looked back at Harry with clear and calculating eyes that were shrewd with accusation, it became all too apparent that the rumours about Nott being a master manipulator were accurate.

Harry tapped his ring finger against the desk and re-evaluated his strategy. He had never been good at the whole manipulation thing, he preferred the more direct approach. Hermione was always calling him 'a bull in a china shop'. However, he was curious to find out what web Nott would weave. After all, he ruminated, there was always a grain of truth in a lie.

“What are your questions?” Harry asked. The corner of Nott’s mouth twitched up slightly in response.

“I feel like it’s obvious,” he made a show of looking around the dimly lit room as he flexed his hands within the confines of his binds. “Why am I being held Officer?” He lowered voice flirtatiously as he peered at Harry through lashes with watchful eyes.

Harry cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “At this moment in time, you are suspected of committing or being in connection with a violent crime. I can hold you here for forty-eight hours while the investigation is underway. If I cannot charge you with solid reasoning of any crime once those forty-eight hours are up, then you will be free to go.” Harry intoned. Nott snorted, his eyebrows had raised high on his forehead as Harry had spoken until he finally looked open, genuinely amused… and relieved?

“Merlin Potter,” he chuckled as his shoulders slumped, “you had me going there.”

“I don’t see what so funny about this situation,” Harry harumphed, frustratedly. 

Nott looked up at Harry with a grin on his lips and mirth in his eyes. As he took a breath to respond, a brisk knock sounded before the door pushed open slightly.

“Potter, a word.”

Robards’ voice came through the cracked door. Harry looked at Nott who quirked an elegant eyebrow in response. Again, Harry found that because Nott's face was open with honest curiosity, it settled like a heavyweight in his stomach as he stood from his chair. It didn’t fit the profile in his folder. Theodore Nott was the villain. Everyone knew it! He had just caught him red-handed at a possible murder location and Harry would burn the world with his convictions before he let him go.

As Harry opened the door, Robards crooked a finger for him to close it behind him. Harry looked up and down the corridor. Ambient noise filtered down from the main bullpen, the smell of coffee drifted to his nose.

“Let him go kid,” Robards rumbled quietly. Harry sucked a breath of shock as his lip raised over his teeth in a snarl.

“He is guilty!”

“Of what?”

Harry paused and mentally backtracked. He took a deep breath and calmed his hackles. “You need to get a team out to The Mumbles Farm. There are signs of a serious altercation. I cast a stasis charm over the scene so as not to contaminate or lose the evidence.” He swallowed and tugged at his hair. He was keenly aware of Nott in the room behind him. He could almost feel the cold analytical eyes through the door. “There was blood everywhere Gawain! Clear signs of a struggle. The place was empty. At best it’s an assault. At worst, a murder. And whilst I’m there, not a soul for miles around in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere, strolling in comes this pillock!” He realised his voice had raised when he heard its echo from the walls around him. He took another calming breath and shoved a hand in his hair. “Don’t tell me to let him go, he’s part of this I’m sure of it. There’s more than enough reasonable ground here to launch an investi-”

“Let him go,” Robards interrupted quietly. Harry started. He looked at his boss, trying to divine his logic. The man looked tired and drawn like he was wearing his years of stress and age all at once. Gawain Robards always carried himself with an air of no-nonsense, the haggard lines carved into his face, told a story of his years. And yet his flowing beard and wispy locks had always leant towards a lothario-type look about him, softening his severe gait, stature and imposing presence. But the man in front of Harry this morning was defeated. The lines on his face deepened with shadows as his eyes looked to beg Harry under a severe brow. Gone was his roguish persona.

The cogs cranked back to life in Harry’s mind.

The ice from the shock shot adrenaline through his veins.

 _I’m missing something_.

Tentatively, the fibrous strand of blood in the water that Harry detected earlier with Nott was back.

 _I’m missing something_.

He took a step back to lean against the door as he continued to analyse Robards, who quietly watched him back. He laid his hands on the door behind him; he could feel the beginning signs of exhaustion under the thrill of the hunt.

_I’m missing something._

Robards had sent him on the noise complaint. The noise complaint was an empty farm. The farm had a stable where there were signs of violence. Theodore Nott turned up at the scene. Robards had told him to let him go. It was a clear-cut argument to warrant the detention and investigation of Nott. And yet...

_I’m missing something._

Harry cocked his head and thought about the man sat in the room he was protecting from his mentor. Nott had been suspicious of him. Had tried to manipulate him. But then he’d changed when he'd found out what he was held in suspicion of. He’d become open and genuine.

Innocent.

But he had turned up to the crime scene. Where Robards had sent him. On a noise complaint. And now Robards was telling him to let him go. Against protocol. A man who did everything by the book. A war hero. A man with unyielding convictions, politics be damned.

And yet…

Harry tapped his ring finger against the door as he took in his mentor.

_Leap of faith._

“Who’s gotten to you?” Harry’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried across the empty corridor. Robards didn’t react. He remained calmly watching on. If Harry didn’t know better, he would have assumed Robards hadn’t heard him.

“Let him go Harry. I mean it," Robards replied with quiet authority. "Go home. I’ll deal with it. You. Go. Home or you're suspended. That’s an order.” He pushed off the wall and meandered down the corridor towards the bullpen, his shoulders slumped, his hands in his pockets, a shell of the man Harry knew him to be.

The blood in the water was visceral and overwhelming.

Harry spun and quickly locked himself back in the room. Nott started, his head rising from where he’d lain it on the table.

“Muffliato,” Harry muttered as he crossed the room. Nott raised an eyebrow as his practised smirk appeared on his lips again.

“What are you going to do to me Potter eh? Done playing by the rules? Going to rough me up some?” His gaze was calculating as he took in Harry’s stance, his hands flexed in their binds. With a flick of Harry’s wand, the binds retracted. Nott looked down and quickly back up to Harry, surprise evident on his features.

“Yes, I’m done playing by the rules,” Harry growled, his fingers tugged through his hair again. “We don’t have a lot of time. What were you doing last night?”

Nott looked warily at Harry as he stretched out his newly freed wrists. “I was running all over London.” He hedged.

“Why?”

“I was doing a favour for a friend.”

“What favour?”

“I don’t have to tell you that, what’s going on here Potter?”

Harry blew out a sigh and dropped into the seat opposite Nott. He spread his hands on the table before him. His thoughts were whirling a storm in his mind.

_I’m missing something._

“What were you doing at the farm?”

“Renfield told me to go there.”

“Who’s Renfield?”

“My cat,” Nott shrugged.

“Be serious,” Harry groaned.

“I am!”

Harry took in Nott’s open expression, his blue eyes bright, his body relaxed.

“Your cat told you…”

“He’s a smart cat,” Nott stated as if this were obvious common knowledge. Harry blew out a sigh and tapped his ring finger against the desk.

“Why did your cat – Renfield was it?” Nott nodded. “Why did Renfield tell you to go to the farm?”

“Because I asked him to help me with the favour.”

“The favour that had you running all over London all night?”

“Yep.”

“The favour you won’t tell me?”

“The very one and the same,” Nott quipped jovially, his eyes alight with mischief. 

Harry hung his head and tried to calm his thoughts. He could feel it, the thread that was begging to be pulled was just dangling out of reach. Robards was involved and knew it. Nott was involved and didn’t know it. 

“Why were you there?” Nott asked gently. Harry looked at him through his fringe that had fallen across his brow.

“Noise complaint,” Harry said. Nott snorted.

“There was no-one there. The place was dead.” He paused, his eyes wracking over Harry, calculating. “Why did you arrest me?”

“You turned up at the scene of a crime.”

“What crime?”

“My gut says murder.”

Nott stilled, all humour drained from his face. He tilted his head as he took in Harry’s words.

“Your gut…” He paused, chewing on a thought. “You mean you don’t know for sure?” Harry nodded. “So there was no body?” Theo tentatively questioned. Harry leant back and blew out a sigh as he stared at the ceiling.

“No, no body. Just a fuck tonne of blood.” Harry swiped a hand down his face. He looked to Nott who had gone very pale.

“I didn’t, I swear. I can give you alibis. I’m sure I’ve turned up on a couple of security cameras across London. I swear to you Potter, I’m not about that. Please you have to believe me!”

Harry watched the panic swell in the man before him. He knew that Nott wasn’t a savoury character, that much he was sure of. But this raw desperation wasn’t the behaviour of a guilty man. The guilty tended to quieten when accused of a crime that they had committed, in the hope that their calmness would sell their lies. No, an innocent man would always have an emotional response to the injustice of being accused of a crime he hadn’t committed. Nott was a good liar – an excellent liar. But he wasn’t _that_ good.

“I believe you,” Harry said. “I don’t want to believe you, because you’re sure as fuck guilty for everything else. But I believe you.” Nott visibly deflated with relief. “Regardless, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been told to let you go anyway,” Harry said as he heaved himself to stand, his exhaustion finally overtaking the amount of adrenaline in his system, deflating him following his defeat in the hunt. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the wand he had confiscated from Nott previously and held it out to him.

“You have to let me go?” Nott cautiously stood as well, gingerly taking his wand, eyeing Harry as he did so.

“Yep,” Harry quipped, popping the P. He reached for the door.

_I’m missing something._

Harry turned back, his hand on the doorknob.

“What’s the favour?” Harry begged one final time. He had to look up slightly as Nott, who had been following Harry to the doors stopped in his personal space. Nott’s brow furrowed in confusion and he wet his lips, his eyes darted between Harry’s, searching for something.

“I have to find a horse.”

“Why the farm?”

“Because my cat told me to go there.”

“I swear to Morrigan Nott, if you are fucking with me…”

“I’m not I swear!” He held his hands up, desperation clouding his features again. “I swear to you Potter, I was searching for a horse, my cat told me to go to the farm. I swear on my magic.” His eyes frantically searched Harry’s as he held his pose of surrender.

“I hate that I believe that bollocks. The fuck am I missing here?” Harry muttered to himself as he pulled the door open. “I’ll escort you to the apparition point.”

Harry stalked ahead without looking to see if Nott had followed him. A horse would fit with the stable, he mused, as his boots clipped along the halls.

_I’m still missing something._

Robards had mentioned the noise complaint in such an offhand way. He had asked Harry to break protocol in letting Nott go without an investigation, regardless of the fact that Harry now believed his innocence. Robards hadn’t answered Harry’s question, but his gut said that he was compromised in some way. Nott was innocent but still involved, somehow. Or was it the cat?

And someone, somewhere, had lost a lot of blood.

And there was a noise complaint.

Harry shook his head, his equilibrium swayed too much from the lack of sleep. As he rounded on the apparition point, he looked behind him and his harsh gaze met with Nott's. An uneasy tension passed between them. It felt like Harry had a thousand things to say and yet he couldn’t form a single sentence, all the while, Nott watched him warily as if he were a wild animal.

“Do me a favour and try not to wander into any more crime scenes,” Harry grumbled as Nott stepped past him and onto the apparition point. He threw a too nonchalant smirk over his shoulder with a casually flipped salute, belaying the tension he held in his shoulders.

“Well there goes my plans for the evening.”

And with a crack, Nott disappeared. 

Harry rolled his eyes at Nott and swayed on his feet as a wave of exhaustion hit him like a tonne of bricks. He should go back and write a report. The rule book said so. He also knew that he should go back to the farm. But Robards said he’d deal with it. But he’s… Harry shook himself, his thoughts a mess. He eyed the apparition point and decided against it. The last thing he needed after his morning was to splinch himself. He needed sleep, he was no good to anyone like this. He ambled over to the fireplaces. The morning traffic was thinner at this time of day. He could hear the newspaper vendors shouting their headlines over the din of chatter that filled the atrium, but he couldn’t make out their words. He stepped up to a fireplace, threw the powder down as he mumbled Grimmauld Place. Harry stumbled into the living room he shared with Hermione. Books and files littered every available surface. He eyed the sofa, but his neck twinged in memory of all the other times he had collapsed on its uncomfortable body. He blearily remembered climbing the stairs to his room, shucking his robes as he went, his mind swirling with snippets of conversations he’d had in the last twelve hours. He hopped across his room and tugged off his boots, narrowly avoiding falling over several other pairs of shoes. Finally, he collapsed face down on his bed and was unconsciously snoring before the second bounce.

*

_**21:47, 8th of September, 1999 - Soteria, Soho, London**. _

A pearl of perspiration slowly travelled down the side of the crystal tumbler; flickering golden light from the fire in the lantern that was placed in the centre of the table, danced along the melting ice cubes and amber liquid that sat within the confines of the twinkling crystal. Gently, the droplet slipped onto the granite table and pooled in the flickering rainbow of light that the crystal edges had transformed the firelight into. Blaise Zabini delicately traced the tip of his finger around the circle of the glass as he surveyed the scene before him. Thursdays always gathered the best crowd for people-watching in the darkened underbelly of Soteria; while Thursday was still considered a working weekday, it was close enough to the weekend that those who truly were in need of liberation and libations would fool themselves into thinking that the hangover never really was as bad as they remembered. Hence, unlike Fridays and Saturdays, Thursdays held an air of mania that meant a good night for business.

That’s what it usually meant. Blaise raised the tumbler and took a generous sip. His booth was tucked into a corner on a raised dais behind the bar, giving him a perfect view of the club whilst also being hidden in shadow. He would never admit it to the others, (though he was pretty sure they already knew) he had modelled the club with a nod to the glorious parties he had orchestrated in the common room back-in-the-day. Soteria was housed on two subterranean levels of what used to be an old building in the centre of London. Though the rest of the above-ground structure no longer existed, the lower levels was a network of rooms and corridors that was an example of perfectly preserved twelfth Century Gothic architecture. Stone walls with grand arches, cavernous ceilings and grand balustrades lining the balconies and staircases. Soteria was a den of winding passageways and secret doors. The main feature was the lower second floor. An open plan area separated by towering stone arches and pillars that formed some kind of intricate skeleton throughout the room; some of the pillars were broken and acted more as raised platforms and were used by the dancers as staging areas. The low firelight of the club would cast enticing shadows across the undulating bodies of patrons and dancers.

Elegance with a touch of sin; class with a pinch of debauchery. Blaise, Theo and Pansy had achieved their vision. A place where it didn’t matter what or who you were, all were welcome and safe in the cool darkness of Soteria.

Usually by that point in the evening, the crowd would be entranced by the hypnotic curves and shapes of their best dancer; ever since the day Thyrra had walked into their lives, Blaise had felt fiercely protective over the wide-eyed Selkie. She was dainty and sweet, endearing in her fragility. But the most enticing thing about her was the air of danger she carried with her like a cloak. While she would casually throw an innocent smile and a twinkling laugh, each action was undermined by her fathomless eyes and the smirk that constantly danced around her lips. On the one hand, she was sugar and spice and all things nice, which made it easy to forget that she was, in fact, a siren. A siren who had been hurt by one too many people. When she’d asked for a job originally they’d placed her behind the bar. She’d been a glorious mixologist, drawing a crowd to the bar and challenging them to create bigger and wilder recipes. One day she asked if she could dance and she’d never hidden behind a bar again. She was a goddess.

A goddess who hadn’t turned up to work.

Olivia and Noah, muggle fraternal twins from Romania had taken the main stage in Thyrra’s place. He took another sip from his glass as he checked his watch. Noting the time, he scanned the crowd again. Pansy was lent against the bar conversing with one of her usual business partners.

Blaise took another draw from this glass, the warm, aged liquid trickled like nectar down his throat as he scanned the room again. It was also becoming painfully apparent that Theo was missing. Since all the nastiness, the three of them – Pansy, himself and Theo – had stuck close together, providing eachother a support network that none of them had found within their families. So while it wasn’t unusual per se, for Theo to drop off the grid for a couple of hours, the time limit was nearing for Blaise to start sending out a search party. And with Thyrra’s no-show, Blaise was already on edge.

The lights of the chamber dimmed further as the music gradually increased in volume, signalling the progression from the ‘cocktails and business’ portion of the evening to ‘tequila shots and mistakes’. A heavy monotonous beat sounded through the speakers. Blaise sipped from his drink again as he felt the vibrations of the bass in his chest. He watched as the space around him filled with people laughing too loudly and leaning too close together, next to the scantily clad bodies that swayed to the pounding beat.

He checked his watch. It had gone past 10pm.

Still nothing.

He looked to Pansy at the bar. She was now stood with a different man from earlier, her fingers slowly twirled his tie as she pursed her lips in thought. Blaise snorted as he watched the man lean into her, enchanted by her antics, seemingly completely unaware of his actions. She was like a Venus flytrap. A true femme fatale. She had taken every etiquette lesson that her mother had forced upon her to make her the ‘perfect wife’, and used them as a means to make men bend to her every whim before she left them either used and abused or in a morgue. They never saw her coming.

Just beyond the bar, Blaise spied the bob of a familiar mess of dark hair skirting a particularly raucous group of men. He reached down and picked up the whisky bottle he had nabbed from the bar before settling in his booth, and summoned another tumbler with a wordless spell. The place was too dark and filled with too many inebriated muggles to worry if someone had seen him. Theo hopped up the dais and fell into the seat on the other side of the table and sipped from the freshly poured whisky.

Blaise waited patiently until his friend was settled, taking him in. His clothes were usually without fail always stylish, tailored and finely pressed, regardless whether it was muggle or wizarding fashion. His hair tended to be styled in the ‘just fucked’ look, that Blaise knew from painful personal experience took way too long to meticulously tousle each wave just so. Across from him now, Theo robes were a day old with worn-in creases and he was sporting a spectacular head of bed hair.

“You will never guess where I’ve been,” Theo said loudly over the bass as he reached for the whiskey bottle Blaise had left in the centre of the table.

“This better be good.” And with that, Theo launched into his tale of libraries and farms, of Potters and Renfields.

“Who, by the way, is our new roommate.” Theo said nonchalantly as he swirled his tumbler in his hand.

“Potter?”

“No, Renfield.”

“The cat?”

Theo nodded sagely. 

“I think I missed that part of the story,” Blaise said, as he rubbed his forehead.

“Well after I left the Ministry, I went back to the library and picked him up. He’s back at ours now. I took him there when I went to grab some sleep.” He finished saying with a satisfied grin.

“So now we have a stolen cat?” Blaise reached for his tumbler to find it empty.

“We do and we’re keeping him. I’ve made the executive decision and I’m putting my foot down.” Theo replied.

“Whatever,” Blaise reached for the bottle from Theo to fill his glass. “You never said why Potter arrested you.”

Theo, who had been raising his glass to his lips, paused. “Oh. Didn’t I?”

“Theo…”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Why were you arrested?” Blaise leaned across the table toward his friend suddenly serious.

“Potter thought I was involved with a murder. But it’s ok! I wasn’t! He knows that!” Theo rushed to placate the growing ire on Blaise’s face.

“Why would Potter think you were involved in a murder?”

“Well I showed up at the farm didn’t I, looking for that fucking horse!” Theo roughed a hand through his hair, “and Potter was already there. He looked proper spooked when he told me about it when he was letting me go. He said that there was blood everywhere, and the place was empty, then I show up and logical connection I suppose. I don’t blame him. But I didn’t see anything when I was there. Then again, not my problem really.”

A deadweight settled in the pit of Blaise’s stomach as Theo’s rambling words washed over him. He lowered his glass to the table with a measured thunk. His heartbeat grew to pound with the bass that vibrated through his chest.

“First of all, Theo, darling, next time, lead with the possible murder!” Blaise growled. He raised his hand to stop Theo’s reply. “This horse. Just clarifying here, who told you to look for it?” Theo met his eyes with a cautiously confused glance.

“Thyrra, you know that. Why?”

Blaise looked over to the bar, searching for Pansy to catch her eye. He gathered his tumbler as he started to rise from his seat. She looked to him over the shoulder of her third catch in so many hours. Blaise hooked a finger, calling her over.

“You need to get Potter back,” Blaise said to Theo who had stood from his seat with a confused expression.

“Why?”

“What are the chances that Thyrra’s horse was at those stables with all that blood?” Blaise asked severely. Theo shrugged.

“I’ll be honest, no idea. I just made a bunch of guesses to get to the library and then followed a cat who may or may not understand me. It could be a series of unfortunate coincidences.”

“Maybe…” Blaise wet his lips as he searched Theo’s face. “But that’s too many coincidences.”

“What do you mean?”

“Thyrra didn’t show for work this evening.”

Theo reeled back as if struck as Pansy joined them on the dais.

“We need to find Thyrra now. Pansy do whatever you have to. Theo, get back to Potter. I’ll send out the Mice.”

Pansy dipped her chin as she trotted back down the dais and melted into the crowd. Theo physically shook himself from his reverie, the whites of his eyes shone in the dim lighting of the club. He downed the rest of his drink before pulling his coat tight across his shoulders.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something,” Theo said as he brushed past Blaise to leave.

Blaise watched as he too melted into the sea of people beneath him. As Blaise stood alone on the dais, the shadows of the club seemed encroach in closer with every beat of the bass, as if the darkness advanced its march to a war drum. A shiver ran down his spine. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin, as he huffed out a quick breath. 

“Fuck” he muttered to himself, as he too disappeared into writhing sea below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts and theories so far!


	4. L’esprit de l’escalier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, all of the world-building and foundation laying and backstory! As I was writing this, I realised that I'm not keen on the tempo of the story so far. However, it was necessary to lay these foundations to go forward and make sure every character is near enough at the same point at the sound of the starting gun. Next chapter, I promise we'll get into it, things will be happening! Hope you enjoy Hermione's moment centre-stage! 
> 
> Trigger warnings - inferred depiction of terrorism and symptoms of anxiety and panic attacks.

**_If you believe everything happens for a reason, then everything will have a reason for happening._ **

\- Anon.

**Chapter 4 - L'esprit de l'escalier**

* * *

* * *

**_22:28 8 th of September, 1999 – Department of Mysteries, British Ministry_ **

The sound of a quill etching ink into parchment was one that Hermione could identify anywhere. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant sound; it bordered on the discomfort one would hear when nails were drawn across a chalkboard. Nonetheless, the sound captured her many memories of the hours she had spent toiling over reports in various libraries. She had come to the conclusion at some point in her sixth year, when the extraneous stress of the oncoming war that had loomed patiently in the background for so many years, finally became an everyday reality. During one of the evenings she had spent in the library, cramming as much as she desperately could ‘just in case’, she had come to the realisation that when passively acknowledged, the sound of scratching quills could be quite soothing. She was forced to make this conclusion during a moment of intense fear, where every sense had heightened as her adrenaline had spiked, and the sound of quills around her had grated against her nerves.

Hermione paused her sentence to down the rest of her tepid coffee. She set the mug down on the desk and briefly glanced around her office. She had a love-hate relationship with the room. On the one hand, she loved the welcoming cosy interior, lined with books and furnished with a plush chair, rich desk and crackling fire; it was safe, homely and quiet enough for her to concentrate on her work in comfort. On the other, when said work was as bad as her current day had been, the home comforts of the office were too happy, too safe, too quiet for the adrenaline that still coursed through her veins. The jarring sense of unease and urgency that were born from her heightened stress levels clashed with the perceived sense of privileged creature comforts the room afforded her, thus creating a discordant reality that was difficult to focus in.

A daub of ink landed on the parchment of the report as her hand shook.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at the offending pool, her face carefully blank of emotion. She watched as another drop of ink collected on the nib again. The trembling of her fingers hastened its accumulation until a particularly sharp tremor in her wrist caused the drip to drop and join its comrade on the page below. Slowly, she gathered air in her lungs, focusing on the cool sensation of her inhalation. She paused as her breath crested, noting the strain and burn in her chest. Activating her core, she carefully released the trapped air in a steady stream, all the while her eyes never left the gathering pool of ink on the page. After a few minutes of repeating this, her hand stilled. She huffed, shook out her shoulders and twitched her finger, wordlessly and wandlessly, vanishing the mess on her work.

In her final year at Hogwarts, she had found herself with far too much spare time. She had worried over it for weeks; though she had set herself the usual study framework, she had wondered whether her abundance of free time was due to negligence of her studies. It hadn’t been until the festive holidays had been and gone, that had she realised that her newfound spare time was because she wasn’t preoccupied with anything to do with Harry or the war. With that conclusion, she’d had a moment of untameable panic whilst she felt adrift with no purpose. Her realisation compounded firstly when she looked to her future, envisioning long after she left the safety of Hogwarts and acknowledged that she had no plan of what to do next. Secondly, when the healers she had contacted from St Mungo’s with regard to her parents, informed her that their case of memory alteration was not as simple as a quick fix. 

After a series of nights that were filled with interrupted sleep, nightmares and worrying her lip raw, she had decided that the purpose that she had been missing was something that she was in control of. So she decided to start her own projects, aside from her studies, researching parts of magic she had always wanted to sink her teeth into but had never had the time what with certain death around every corner. One topic of which, had been wandless non-verbal magic. While the strength of her magic was nothing to be sniffed at, she wasn’t as powerful as Harry who had naturally picked up the skill during his Auror training. She had had to work at it constantly and could only manage a few cantrips here and there.

As for her parents, they were doing a lot better. They had a wavering eighty per cent of their memories back, and that was the best that could be done without damaging the organic tissue where their memories had been buried. But the occasional memory loss was no longer the issue. As her mum had said, in doing what she had done, she had broken their trust. It had taken a while but eventually, they had agreed to talk to Hermione again, if only through family counselling. She had grouched at the time, but months on she wouldn’t besmirch the results. She had a relationship with them. It wasn’t what it was when she younger, it couldn’t be after everything they had been through, but it was grounded in love. They had elected to remain in Australia; her father had taken up surfing, much to her mother’s fond dismay, and has said that he couldn’t possibly “leave the swell of the surf that beat with the rhythm of his heart” ... Hermione had guessed that it was probably less likely to do with tides and more to do with old memories and new lives. She couldn’t begrudge them of that.

The scratch of the quill filled the room again as she set to finishing her report. Her open active cases were beginning to look like an intimidating task. The reports she had taken home the previous night and subsequently drooled all over, involved a purported Ancient Mesopotamian tablet that had been exhumed during a muggle archaeological dig. It had wound up in the British Natural History Museum being the main attraction for their new Ancient Wonders exhibit. Within days of the exhibit opening, there had been a rise of muggle crime reports of vandalism and break-ins by the Museum staff, but police had never found evidence of foul play. The case had landed on Hermione’s desk when one of the museum’s night-guards had been found one morning, suspended in mid-air in the Underwater Wonders exhibit, between a blue whale and humpback, with his entrails displayed below like a macabre Jackson Pollock piece. After weeks of investigation, crowd-controlling and politicking, the British Natural History Museum had a new source of income in their ghost tours and was now widely believed to be a fantastic hub for paranormal activity; everyone involved believed that the guard had died of natural causes on a run one day, after having lived a long and peaceful life – the family were much happier as a result. The purported Ancient Mesopotamian tablet was, in fact, a cursed relic that used to be safely contained within the Alexandrian Library. The running theory amongst Hermione’s team was that after the Library’s staged destruction, the relic had been stolen and had subsequently changed hands, cursing everyone (read: killing everyone) until it had been lost to the sands of time and buried beneath the Earth.

It had been a simple case in hindsight, but the minutiae of muggle involvement had made the whole investigation needlessly finicky. The last thing that remained was the report she was currently failing to write. She was keenly aware that if she didn’t finish it that evening, it would become lost in the mill of paperwork that she would inevitably have to produce following her two most recently acquired cases.

Hermione signed her name with an exuberant flourish; the crick in her neck and ache in her shoulders groaned as she straightened. She shuffled the report into the investigation folder, updated the archive information and placed it in her out-tray. She stood and stretched, her spine popping as she did. After the day she had had, all she wanted to do was go home, have a scolding hot shower to scrub off the stench of ash and Azkaban, crawl into her ridiculous bed and put a full stop on the day. She picked up her travel mug and cast a final look around her office for anything she may have missed.

Satisfied, she turned toward the door and froze in her tracks. Sitting quietly in the corner, hidden by the shadows of the bookcase, was a shimmering, pearlescent silhouette of a coyote Patronus. It cocked its head as it studied her with intelligent eyes. Hermione purposefully relaxed her stance, mirroring its jaunted position. She had had many a run-in with this particular Patronus. When she had joined the Ministry, she was already aware that the Aurors used Patronus’ to deliver messages, owing to the integrity of the soul to give credence and security to the message delivered. It had been a useful tool for the Order. Since becoming an Unspeakable however, she had learned in her time there, that while the Aurors had the correct theory, a Patronus was so much more than an echo of one’s soul; it was more akin to an extension of it, like an astral projection of sorts. This made for a useful tool for real-time distance observation (read: spying). She relaxed her white knuckle grasp on her mug, surreptitiously wet her lips and focused on controlling her breath, all to affect a relaxed and unflappable stance in the coyote’s eye.

After all, he was her boss.

“Are you finished for the night?” Raine Willows’ soft voice whispered from the coyote.

“Yes,” Hermione replied, silently begging that this random event was not more work and just merely a weird moment that her boss decided to check on her well-being.

“Come to the Materia Cloisters, if you would.” The coyote stood and stretched out its haunches before it disappeared through Hermione’s office door.

Hermione collected herself as her heart sank. _So much for sleep._ Ensuring that her calm mask was in place, she exited her office and made her way down the glossy corridor. At this time of night, open office doors housed quiet colleagues, all too immersed in their workloads to notice her ghost by their doors. It was the passive acknowledgement of the sound of scratching quills and low warm pools of light that spilt out on to the obsidian floor that settled her rattled nerves as she approached the main vault door that lay at the very end of the offices. The door itself was huge, made from the same glossy black substance as the surrounding corridor. It stood from floor to ceiling, with precise silver embellished craftsmanship on the trimmings. Only Unspeakables were allowed past this point, and since the whole debacle in the Hall of Prophecy and the Death Chamber, the department had decided against the original twelve door anti-chamber design and remodelled to a singular door that was host to a whole gamut of nasty detection and prevention wards. Wards that she was positive fell nicely into the grey area of legality that the Department of Mysteries resided in most of the time.

Performing the necessary unlocking mechanism, the door clunked heavily as it slowly yawned open. The view of the immediate room beyond was obscured by whatever veil was cast by the protection wards on the door. Hermione remembered the first time she officially entered the chambers. She had stood on the precipice of the doorframe, while Raine had leant against the wall behind her silently waiting, whilst she had stared into the void of shadows. It was never not a nerve-wracking experience, equivalent to stepping into the unknown. Coming through the other side, wherever you landed, was like waking up from a falling dream. The chambers had a tendency to shift and re-organise themselves randomly. The reason for this phenomena was dependent upon to whom one asked. The newer cohorts of Unspeakables tended to err towards the explanation that it was part of the whole security system; the Unspeakables who had been there a few years, not yet wizened by their tenure, opted to say that the shift of the chambers mirrored tidal and planetary movements (again, the onus of the force was dependant on further characteristics of the individual asked); finally, if one asked the elder Unspeakables who carried themselves with an air of general ‘fuck you, I’m untouchable’ confidence, they would nonchalantly reply that the chambers tended to do whatever pleased them and there was fuck all to be done about it.

Hermione’s stomach swooped as she broke through the thick warded shroud, her foot landing delicately on the floor inside. The room was dark and her neck prickled with a spike of fear. One of the main training exercises throughout her time in the department had been acclimating to the chambers and running their gauntlet. This meant entering their maze several times a day. On more than one occasion, Hermione had started in chambers that weren’t particularly hospitable. The Timor Tunnels, for instance, was a gloomy labyrinth of cave-like tunnels that housed nightmares – literally and metaphorically. The transmutation of a unicorn was a rare occurrence and extraordinarily dark magic, and if left to roam free, was a catastrophic omen for an impending imbalance in the ley lines. The ripples of such an event had historical effects, such as the period in time that muggles endearingly refer to the time of frost fairs on the River Thames. The mini ice-age that had frozen the Northern hemisphere between sixteen hundred and eighteen fourteen was the result of a transmuted unicorn in the Andes, resulting in a Nightmare sometime in the late sixteenth century. It was later captured roaming the Dolomites in the December of eighteen fourteen, subsequently making it the last year the Frost Fair's were hosted on the Thames.

It had been brought to the Timor Tunnels.

His name was Inverno.

He liked cherries, little fingers and not to be disturbed by fresh-faced, unsuspecting trainee Unspeakables during his naptime.

Hermione always carried a pack of candied cherries on her person, as well as a compact silver mirror, a compass that never lied, a blade sheathed in dead man's blood, a towel and a book of riddles.

Her eyes adjusted to the room around her and she experienced a second sweep of vertigo as she realised, to her relief, that she was in the Space chamber. It was the most awe-inspiring chamber, with a three-sixty view of mind-bogglingly huge planets that moved gracefully like silent giants through an open emptiness, only highlighted by the pinpricks of distant light whose number and meaning was incomprehensible in the vast nothingness. The floor wasn’t strictly a floor per se in the traditional sense. It was merely a matter of wilfully believing you wouldn’t fall through space – which many had. The Space Chamber was also the easiest one to get lost in. The chamber itself had transitional dimensional magic on it that allowed for the physicist Unspeakables to study the star system of their choice, many lightyears away; or for the Divinist Unspeakables to postulate the nature of time and space from a cosmological perspective, whilst keeping a watchful eye on the telluric currents of the universe or singularly to Earth, all without being hindered by the reasonable parameters of Earthbound structures. This meant it was possible to walk for miles and miles and miles and so on. Every trainee had to map their own path through the stars. Those who failed would either turn up eventually, shell-shocked and haunted from deep space or never seen again.

Hermione set off, carefully keeping the Sagittarius constellation on her nine o’clock, Ursa Minor to her one o’clock and Canis Major somewhere in the vicinity of quarter past five. After a few minutes of steadfastly believing that the door would appear before her, her toe knocked against it as it materialised in Mercury’s shadow. She performed the required wand taps and stepped through the shroud and landed in the newly refurbished Hall of Prophecies. She took a calming breath as she felt the familiar constriction of panic on her lungs and began to sedately walk through the towering shelves.

A lot of the work at the DoM required mental fortitude and a strong belief that whatever action one was about to take was probably the right one. Hesitation could lead to death. Second-guessing could lead to death. Fear and uncertainty… could lead to death. The payoff, she had reasoned to herself many times, was that without the risk and stepping blindly into the unknown, nothing would ever move forward. Questions would remain unanswered. Centuries of prejudice and fear would stay relevant whilst society, muggle and magical, would be ignorant of the knowledge hidden behind a wall of fear. Sure the adrenaline rush was something, but none of her colleagues and herself had a death wish. It was just an unfortunate consequence that they all had an intimate relationship with their own mortality. As such, while the training had covered extensive forms of physical, metaphysical, spiritual and psychic combat, research specialities and all the sexy stuff that drew them all like moths to a flame, a huge portion of the training had been centred on meditative techniques. Hermione was aware that the Hall of Prophecies for her held echoes of her past trauma and that those battle scars would heal with time. But just like she had done when she had returned to Hogwarts, she reminded herself again that she was in control as she calmed her heart that threatened to pound. In an attempt to distract herself as she quickened her pace, Hermione mused on the recent findings that the researchers who specialised in the Timor Tunnels were discussing over lunch earlier in the week. They seemed to have discovered a divergence in the understanding of what constituted the phenomena of fear. They had been rather rattled by their results.

Hermione reached the third door and passed through the shroud, this time stepping out into the vespertine lit garden of the Materia Cloisters. The Cloisters were a series of botanical gardens that twinkled in a perpetual haze of otherworldliness, filled with flowers, plants, trees and vines that flourished in the magical atmosphere. Veins of streams trickled over moss-covered rocks between bushels of carnivorous Etheldreda Sundew, Devils Snare and Fairy Grass. The violent red of the Sundew’s body stood proudly like a wound amongst the surrounding shadowed foliage. Hermione carefully began to pick her way her through the plants, taking care to avoid being eaten. She stepped wide to trail her fingers down the vines of the Hanging Willows in order to avoid the sleeping Ya-Te-Veo tree. Moving away from the colloquially named ‘murder fields’, the air filled with the contradictory sounds of gentle flapping wings and the continuous hum of quickened flight. Around her, butterflies and hummingbirds flitted from one brightly coloured flower to the next, lending to the heady, mystical atmosphere. She hopped from rock to rock as she came to a particular wide stream, elating in the child-like feeling that this particular jaunt never failed to elicit.

Ahead, the trail she followed started to split off into minor tributaries as she approached the research stations. The Materia Cloisters' main function was to explore different methods at growing and harvesting everything that the world could possibly offer, and seeing what they could be used for, be it topically or orally. More often than not, the researchers here were peaceful people, imbued with the calmness that the gardens provided. But occasionally an experimental potion would go awry and Hermione would find a chastened, singed Unspeakable blinking into the middle distance in the breakroom as tinnitus rang in their ears. 

Hidden at the base of a Giant Sequoia tree was a work station that was cast in a blue ghostly light from millions of fungus gnats that covered the Sequoia’s colossal trunk. She spied a few floating candles that flickered above a large steaming cauldron, creating the illusion of a warm ball of light within icy depths. A tall shadowed figure danced and twisted around the cauldron, adding ingredients with a dramatic flourish.

When Hermione had first met Raine, she had been cautious of the reserved man whose presence she had likened to a wraith. His gaunt face and black eyes had unnerved her; his quiet disposition unsettled her surety. But then he’d made her an offer and baited her with a challenge she couldn’t refuse. When she had started in the department, the nerves and excitement of a new job had been tinged with a shiver of fear every time she’d seen Raine observe quietly over the class of new recruits. He didn’t say anything for quite some time, weeks infact, just observed in the background. And then one day, the training had begun proper and Raine had escorted her to the Chamber’s door.

“ _Don’t die._ ” His words had been so delicately sombre and yet she had felt as if she had been hit with Bombarda. She’d searched his face as he’d leant in a disaffected way against the wall, analysing her as she stepped through the darkened door.

He’d waited for her.

Hours later she had crawled out bloodied, exhausted and shaken. She had lain on the cool tiles gathering her breath, her mind racing until she’d felt a tender finger under her chin that had tipped her head to meet his gaze. He’d searched her face, his roaming black eyes void of emotion. Whatever he had seen that day had set the tone for the months following.

“ _Good. Now we begin Little Bird._ ”

Raine had mentored her throughout her training. Sometimes duelling with her, sometimes taking her through the chambers showing her oddities and secrets. Hermione had gotten to know him over time. She still felt a sense of unease around him, but that could probably be more attributed to his ‘otherness’. Out there - out in the real world - where magic played by rules, Raine was the menacingly quiet husk of a man she’d met in Minerva’s office. In the chambers, he laughed.

The first time did so, Hermione swore her heart had stopped in fear.

He laughed and danced off-kilter with the chaotic magic that the chambers offered. He was a man of vast knowledge, who ran the department with a persuasively subtle iron fist. He was always on hand to help with insight on projects, but he curtailed them if they crossed whatever line was in his head. Technically, there was no Ministry oversight on the DoM, but the morally ambiguous nature of the department hadn’t veered into the criminal – yet. Raine had explained it in his lilting musical voice one day as they’d walked through the Qualia Labs. The oversight of the DoM wasn’t beholden to Man, he had said, just like the reason for existence, and that while it was the department’s job to investigate the nature of the state in which we exist, it was not for the place of Man to abuse it.

This would be one of the many times Hermione wondered whether Raine was human.

Hermione approached the lit cauldron to see Raine pirouette toward the shelves and dip into a low bow, before rising on-toe point to reach a glass jar. Hermione watched amused as his tongue pocked between his teeth in a child-like display of determinism as he cracked the lid of the jar and held it close to his face to inspect the inside. She placed a hand over her mouth to smother the chuckle that bubbled up her throat. Raine swerved toward the noise, his blinking eye magnified through the bottom of the glass jar.

“Little Bird,” he quipped, his enlarged eye blinked again as a grin stretched across his face.

“What are you making?” Hermione said in greeting, stepping up to the cauldron to peer inside. The simmering liquid within was an opalescent black that reminded her of petroleum and oil. 

“Je ne sais pas,” Raine picked something from the jar and flicked it in. The **plop** of its landing served as an ominous full stop to his sentence. Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him.

“What’s your motivation?” She tried to still her trembling lips that struggled to restrain the smile that threatened to break at Raine’s behaviour. If only second-year Hermione, who had not suffered the fool that was Ron Weasley, could see her now.

“Oh you know…” he sang as he waved a flippant hand over his shoulder whilst placing the jar back on the shelf.

“Entertain the thought that I don’t,” Hermione said as she crossed her arms over her chest. Raine paused as he turned, taking her in. He hummed thoughtfully and skipped a step as he coyly swung his hands behind his back.

“Oh the usual, ‘surprise me and show me your secrets’ and all that malarky.” His midnight eyes twinkled with mischief in the candlelight, the dancing shadows threw his severe angular features into sharper relief. “But enough of this,” he suddenly spun on his heel, tapping his chin as he surveyed the shelves again, and with a hint of a smile in his voice he said, “pray tell Little Bird, what were you doing in your office so late?”

Hermione quickly schooled her features to cover her surprise. It wasn’t unusual for him to check-in on her work, he was the head of the department as well as her mentor. He had a vested interest from two avenues to oversee her work. However, it was unusual to call her into the chambers at midnight to check such a thing.

“Uh…” Hermione drew a quick breath and cleared her throat. “I was finishing the report for the Alexandrian Tablet case.”

“Oh…” Raine looked up at her sharply from where he was sprinkling sprigs of an unidentifiable herb into the cauldron. Hermione’s confusion exponentially grew as his face betrayed a brief flash of disappointment. Raine was a master of controlling his emotions (read: reason number nine hundred and forty-two of why Raine was probably not human).

“Was there something you wanted me working on?” Hermione probed.

“No no” he sang loftily, “it’s good you’re wrapping that up.” His brow furrowed belaying his words as he placed a jar back on the shelves. His hand lingered next to it as he paused in thought. “You are wrapping it up aren’t you?”

“Yes, the folder’s gone to archive.”

“Good, good,” he muttered more to himself than her as he searched the shelves for another ingredient. Hermione’s mind raced as she tried to get her metaphorical feet on the ground.

“So, how was your day?”

Hermione made a noise of confusion in the back of her throat at his question. She watched him pull down a large wooden box and carry it to the workbench.

“Long, I’ll have it all written up tomorrow,” she edged cautiously.

“Debrief me,” Raine said as he picked a still butterfly from the box, its diaphanous wings glinted eerily in the spectral light of the garden.

Hermione hadn’t debriefed verbally to a supervisor since the McGlowen case early in her tenure. There were protocols that even Raine followed, and mentorship aside, a Junior Unspeakable did not debrief to the head of the department. She shifted from one foot to another, unsettled by the conversation.

“I came in this morning to two inter-department memos. The first from our offices reporting intelligence on an attack that took place in muggle London at zero-seven-twenty-seven. The second was an undisclosed department memo from a one, Byron Rook, reporting that there had been an incident at Azkaban in the early hours of this morning, zero-three-hundred hours, whereby Prisoner Four Forty-Four underwent what I now know to be a creature inheritance.”

“You know do you?” Raine mused quietly as he continued to dance at an albeit more sedate pace while he listened to Hermione talk.

“I…” she paused, feeling wrong-footed. _Do I know?_

“Where did you go first?” Raine interrupted her thoughts.

“I arrived at Waterloo Station entrance with Tal and Beta team. The muggle emergency services were already on scene trying to get the blaze from the blast under control. We didn’t assist in their efforts as firstly the risk of exposure was great, while secondly, we had a strong suspicion that the blaze had been caused through magical means and we did not want to contaminate the area.”

Raine hummed as he nodded his head. He picked up a long ladle and began to stir the cauldron clockwise.

“Once the blaze was more under control, we illusioned ourselves and went in to help with the rescue efforts. Final count as of eighteen hundred hours, fifty-six dead, twenty-seven wounded. All survivors are muggle.”

Raine clucked, a severe crease formed between his pointed brows. “Running theory?”

“We cast a widespread detection and managed to find an echo of a magical signature. Given the nature of the explosion and the echo of the signature, it is inferred that the caster was caught in the explosion and is deceased. Whether that was intentional or not is unknown.”

“What do you think Little Bird?” Hermione took a breath and levelled her shoulders.

“I think the casting was intentional. The spell used was a more explosive, short-form version of Fiendfyre. Like a flashbang. That cannot be cast unintentionally or be a result of a misfire. I believe that the caster had no intention of escaping or controlling the initial devastation, which is why I believe the targeted area was so enclosed, as to impose some environmental control on the spell.”

Raine pirouetted away from the cauldron and fluttered on tip-toed feet to the shelves to delicately run his fingers over the jars in search of something.

“Your theory as to why?”

“Broadly and simply, the caster aimed to harm maximum muggle casualties in an enclosed space. As to his reasons, it wouldn’t be wise for me to postulate with the scarce information I have.” Hermione steeled herself for a rebuke, but she watched as Raine tipped his chin in agreement while he sprinkled a glitter-like powder into the shimmering liquid that simmered in the cauldron.

“Wise,” he acknowledged quietly. “Your next move?”

“Beta is split between working with a tea – how much are you adding of that?!” Raine looked up at her wide-eyed with innocence as he immediately halted the steady stream of powder he had been pouring. He shrugged nonchalantly and he reattached the lid.

“That much. You were saying?” He grinned at her as he went to grab another jar. Hermione huffed and eyed the cauldron with concern.

“We’ve split the team between the DMLE and muggle law enforcement. Tali is overseeing the DMLE, I the muggle. The first action is trying to identify the suspect on the muggle security systems. As soon as we have a face, we’ll go from there.”

“Your friend, Potter, is he on the case?”

“No.” For a brief moment earlier in the day, Hermione had entertained the possibility that Harry would finally know. Her time at DoM hadn’t been particularly taxing as of yet, but sometimes she did catch herself longing to offload about office politics to him over a Chinese takeaway. Technically, she couldn’t tell him of her work title, but if Harry found out because of a workplace assignment between DMLE and DoM, and they happened to work together, then that couldn’t be helped. _Only a matter of time._ Hermione was patiently waiting (read: chomping at the bit) for that day to come.

“Very well, keep me updated,” Raine sang in his lilting soft voice. “And what of Prisoner… Four Forty-Four was it?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. No matter how distracted or fae-like he behaved, Raine had unfortunately fortunate perfect recall. Even when it seemed that his attention was rapt by some unfathomable existential concern, there had many occasions where Hermione and her peers had come to realise the hard way, the fact that Raine was always paying attention. _Why is he making me clarify? What’s his game?_ Hermione had also come to realise, that while it was an admirable life-goal to out-manoeuvre her boss, she was keenly aware that this goal was laid with prerequisite knowledge that he was always twenty steps ahead of her.

“I stepped away from Waterloo once clean-up was well underway and went to Azkaban. By the time I arrived, Four Forty-Four was conscious and talking to a family member. I spoke to the head Healer of the case, Morin. He had been the first on-scene emergency responder at three am. He seemed shaken as he delivered his report to me. It sounded as if it had been touch-and-go for a moment.”

Hermione paused and sucked in a breath as the scene replayed in her mind’s eye as she focused her gaze on the swirling contents of the cauldron. Hermione had seen Morin before he had been aware of her presence; he had been stooped over a mess of scattered parchment, whilst numerous colourful diagnostics were projected from his wand before him. His mouth had been severe, his pallor ashen as he quickly alternated between the parchment and diagnostic comparing his notes. After he had introduced himself, she’d asked for his report and diagnosis. Save for the haunted, war-torn look in his eye, he’d been professional and detached as he tonelessly stated the facts.

‘ _Multiple contusions across the abdomen and down the spine from an unknown origin._ ’ Morin had gestured to a red erratic line on the diagnostic. ‘ _Extreme tachycardia that has since calmed, but he is still showing signs of arrhythmia,’_ he had said as he had pointed to an irregularly spiking red line.

“Four Forty-Four was showing signs of recovering physically from his ordeal. He continued to present symptoms of extreme physical stress and pain. However, Morin was particularly concerned with his magical signature and a peculiar injury,” Hermione intoned emotionlessly.

Hermione could feel the heavyweight of Raine’s eyes on her. She subtly tried to wipe her palms against her trousers as she continued to stare into the cauldron.

“Prisoner Four Forty-Four appeared to have a Lichtenburg Figure up his back surrounded by severe contusions on his spine, around his shoulder blades, across his abdomen and chest and into his hairline from an unknown origin. The prisoner’s family member denied knowledge of it being there previous to this event and Morin concurred this fact by investigating the admission records. He said that there was no evidence of this scar upon his admittance to Azkaban.”

“Theories?” Raine’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Morin had none but his conclusion was that it must be a side effect of this unconventional full creature inheritance.”

Raine made a quiet noise in his chest that sounded much like a growl. “How very Occum’s Razor.”

Hermione’s focus snapped to him at his discontented tone. He was staring off into the distance at something only he could see, as he often did when he was in deep thought. His sharp face was set more serious than she had seen since their time working together. The shadows cast by the low lighting of the bow of the Sequoia aided his growing sinister aura. Gone was the playful, twirling man of five minutes previous. Before her stood the guardian wraith who she rarely saw, but feared nonetheless. He stood immovable, still as a statue and Hermione daren’t speak in case she attracted his foreboding stare.

“Why is this inheritance unconventional?” He murmured menacingly, his focus still caught elsewhere, but his discontent obvious all the same. Hermione swallowed, grounding herself whilst she shifted her gaze back to the now cooled contents of the cauldron.

“The last full-blooded Veela in that family was in the thirteen hundreds.” She didn’t need to explain more than that to him: if he needed further clarification he would ask, but she was pretty certain that he knew the significance of that fact. A muscle in the corner of his mouth tightened with the barest grimace while the air around him darkened further.

“Unconventional indeed…” He drawled while he tapped his chin as he spoke. “And how is the prisoner?”

“He’s recovering. While I stepped in he was conscious though somewhat disorientated.”

“Disorientated?” Hermione nodded in response. “How was he behaving?” Raine’s hushed tone dripped with threat.

“He…” Hermione swallowed thickly, her throat clicked loudly in the quietened garden. _What the fuck is happening here? Why is this such an issue?_ Her mind raced as she backtracked through their conversation, trying to pinpoint where it had taken a nose-dive into this ominous atmosphere.

“He was lucid and cognisant. However, when Morin spoke to him, it appeared that his mind was preoccupied.” She paused, her tongue darted out to wet her lips before she added hastily, “Quite understandably… given the circumstances an all.”

_Can’t blame him._ There was an inkling of discomfort at the hint that she could possibly be defending Draco Malfoy’s actions to her boss. Her boss who was fine, and at some point in the conversation, regarding Malfoy, had become not fine. Hermione recalled the stricken look on Malfoy’s sallow face when she had appeared in his cell. She had been shaken by his appearance. Though she hadn’t been expecting him to be the pique of health considering she had seen his diagnostics, had the report and the fact that he’d been in prison for over a year. Still, the familiar pointed face from her childhood had lost any resemblance to the boy who poked fun at her teeth whilst spitting prejudice slurs. This man’s face was gaunt with malnourishment, his bones stark under his greyed ill-fitting prison drab. His hair was lank with filth and got caught on the uncompromising valleys of his skeletal frame that his deathly pallid skin stretched over. Besides his poor health, two things had rattled Hermione to her core. The first was the black talons that elongated Malfoy’s already large hands. Their black hue and pointed tips could only be categorised as ‘obviously fucking dangerous’. The second had been his eyes. They were human, but they were unfamiliar to those that she had locked onto _that_ day in _that_ drawing-room. Those eyes had always been savage and cutting like a quicksilver blade. The eyes before her in the cell were haunted and pained, like cool mercury. At the time, she had attested that to the fact that he had clearly been through an ordeal but she knew as she did, that that explanation did no justice to the evidence before her.

He looked hunted and frightened.

“What action are you taking?” It was moments like that, that Hermione had come to appreciate her relationship with Raine. She knew he was allowing her to take the lead on the situation. She knew that if she judged that no further action was needed from the DoM, then he wouldn’t push the issue. She knew that she could walk away and he was allowing her that option – regardless of his apparent feelings on the subject.

“Further investigation is required,” she said with more conviction than she felt. Raine turned to study her. Whatever he found there must have appeased him; with a nod, he gestured for her to proceed.

“Given the peculiar and violent nature of this inheritance, it is prudent to continue monitoring him. The fact that the prisoner is confined in Azkaban for at least another ten months should allow us and St Mungo’s ample security to monitor his manifestation, whilst ensuring he is no risk to the public,” Hermione said.

“Very well,” Raine placed his hands deep into his pockets and levelled her with a hard stare. “So what action are you taking?”

Hermione recognised the test in the repeated question.

“I placed an informal focus point within his cell while his family member conversed with Morin.” Raine nodded with approval.

Another of the DoM’s morally ambiguous discoveries was the invention of the mobile focus point that allowed for the caster to access it remotely through scrying - effectively creating a magical CCTV camera. While the Ministry was woefully behind the muggle government on privacy laws, the DoM was able to utilise the focus point to observe (read: spy).

Raine gestured the workstation with a grand sweep. “Show me.”

Hermione approached the workbench, wiping her clammy palms once again. She pulled an empty mixing bowl to her and tapped her wand to the rim.

“Aguamenti,” she muttered. She felt a cold presence at her back and knew that Raine was watching over her shoulder. She swallowed thickly. She had no reason to be nervous, _other than Raine’s apparent vehement and weird dislike for this entire conversation._ It wasn’t like Malfoy was someone she had to protect, _especially not from Raine._ And yet…

“Incipere Finestera.”

The water in the bowl rippled, shattering the perfect reflection of the blue glow from the Sequoia. Slowly, as if a lens coming into focus, the image of Malfoy’s cell was projected onto the now calm water. The view was from the top corner opposite his cot, giving her a perfect view of the room. The scene depicted on the water was still, the cramped, darkened cell illuminated by the silver glow of the moon that bore unerringly in through the open gap in the north wall. Hermione’s eyes roved the picture, searching for signs of Malfoy. Her anxiety increased with the seconds that passed, her charge nowhere to be found. The cot lay bare, devoid of life nor the scratchy blankets she had spied wrapped around Malfoy’s large folded form. She looked over her shoulder at Raine, who was intently focused on the bowl.

“I – I don’t understand. I asked to be notified if he was exam-”

Raine nodded his head in a gesture toward the bowl. Hermione snapped back to it and her knuckles whitened as her grip the workbench tightened unconsciously.

 _For fuck sake!_ Hermione huffed in annoyance. Malfoy had managed to find the one blind spot in the room, directly below where she had stuck the focus point. From the bottom of the scene, a large shadow unfolded slowly. Malfoy stood, shifted his shoulders and cricked his neck from side to side. The blanket that was curled over his form like a cloak, slipped from its perch and pooled on the floor. Hermione started, taking him in. When she had seen him earlier, he had been hunched over on the bed, his limbs curled in on himself; she could’ve guessed, even with his bony physique he was broad. The figure in the bowl was tall and broad, long-limbed and had the potential to be an overwhelming presence.

He was also incredibly thin.

Hermione’s brow furrowed in consternation.

Gently, as if afraid to make a noise, Malfoy delicately stepped across his cell toward the window. He placed a hand on the wall as he tipped his head up. He was ethereal, his silver hair and eyes glinted softly in an unearthly way in the cold light of the moon. The sharp cheekbones and pointed chin were thrown into starker relief, the shadows caused by his cadaverous features were deep and long, lending him a grim, cruel light to the once cherubic pointed face. His large hand no longer possessed the black talons; nonetheless, Malfoy’s delicate, skeletal hands erred the wrong side of thin to be likened to musicians. Quietly he stood in the wash of the moon, his frame taut yet defeated. The rise of his chest stuttered as if he struggled to draw breath; his teeth buried themselves in his lip as his hand twitched on the wall. His filthy hair framed his face as his head dropped between his shoulders. It was a scene that could’ve been taken straight from a renaissance depiction of the Morningstar.

“Little Bird?”

Hermione started from her reverie and looked over her shoulder toward the question.

Raine tilted his head as he watched her with curiosity. His black eyes bore into hers, patiently demanding answers.

“I-”

“Who is he?” He spoke gently as if soothing a wounded animal – the clash of his tender persona with the baleful being he had been throughout this conversation, struck a feeling akin to whiplash.

“Prisoner Four F-”

“Who _is_ he Little Bird?” The subtle iron fist pried the answers from her mouth.

“Draco Malfoy.” The way that his name rushed from her lips, left a hollow feeling in her chest. She drew a shuddering breath as her eyes returned to the bowl. Malfoy was still hunched over, the sharp lines of his shoulder blades were prominent in the hanging prison drab. She watched as he lifted his head back to the moon, the Adam’s Apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked pained and barely contained.

Something clicked.

“But you knew that already, didn’t you.” While Hermione stated it as fact, she still held her breath while waiting for confirmation of her theory.

“What gives you that impression?” Raine’s voice was further away than she expected, she hadn’t heard him move (read: reason four hundred and twenty-two for the argument against Raine’s humanity, Raine never made a sound no matter how much he pranced around). She turned and spotted him stooped over the cauldron, poking its shiny surface with a ladle.

“Come off it. Something’s been off since I started debriefing on him. You knew from the start.” Hermione wet her lips, “how _did_ you know?”

Raine twisted his hand that wasn’t preoccupied with the ladle with a flourish. Suddenly he held a medium-sized vial between his fingers.

“I knew it was the Malfoy boy,” he acquiesced, while he began to carefully spoon the opalescent mixture into the vial.

“But how? I didn’t know until I got there. All this Byron Rook said was the Prisoner designation…” Hermione’s eyes darted back to the bowl. Malfoy was still stood in the column of moonlight, his face upturned towards it. The expression he wore on his face was starved, not only of sustenance. His eyes were fervent as if he were imploring, silently begging Luna to set him free.

“Come to think of it, who is Byron Rook?” Hermione rounded on Raine again, who was placing a stopper into the vial. His shoulders hitched in a careless shrug.

“Je ne sais pas,” he caught her eye; the mischievous twinkle from earlier was back but it was curtailed by an underlying sharpness. “It’s a good question though isn’t it.”

Hermione frowned, unsettled by the turn in the conversation.

“But how did you know it was Malfoy?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Hermione tensed, “Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t, shan’t, impossibilité,” Raine sang with a dramatic flourish as he vanished the rest of the potion from the cauldron. Hermione huffed a short sigh and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Why?”

“Because...”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow as he threw a smirk at her. This was a familiar rapport with an unfamiliar undertone. In the past, when Hermione had caught the thread of a case, Raine had feigned ignorance, allowing her to take the lead a make her own discoveries whilst he was twenty steps ahead making sure she didn’t stumble too far off track in the dark. That was where the obnoxiousness of their exchange was stemming from. But the edge, the uneasy undertone, the sharpness in his eye that belayed the playful stance he was trying to perpetuate. His actions were too precise. He watched her too closely.

Hermione’s eyes locked onto the bowl. She didn’t feel sorry for Malfoy. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. _Impossibilité._ But seeing him so broken stirred something within her chest. While her gut was telling her that whatever Raine was withholding from her wasn’t good; while she didn’t know who Byron Rook was; while there were still questions around Malfoy’s inheritance; while he was locked up and unable to defend himself, she felt a surprisingly fierce responsibility toward him.

“Finite,” Raine muttered over her shoulder. The only reason Hermione didn’t startle from Raine sudden presence behind her was because that reflex had been beaten out of her, literally. The last vestiges of Malfoy’s macabre seraphic form dissolved into the clear water. Hermione blinked, the image of his yearning face burned into the back of her eyes. She turned to Raine, the many questions on her lips died before they were spoken when she realised he had disappeared again. She stepped away from the workbench toward the cauldron, trying to place where the mad hatter had disappeared to.

“I have something for you.”

Hermione spun toward the voice to see Raine stepping out of a large bush. She craned her neck to see what lay in the direction in which he had come from, but couldn’t see past the foliage.

“Another assignment,” he said, holding out an inter-department memo to her. Hermione cautiously took it, eyeing him with unanswered questions.

“You want me to take another case…right now?” Hermione struggled to keep the disbelief from her voice.

“I do,” Raine nodded sagely, as he rocked on his heels.

“Forgive me, but after all of this,” Hermione gestured toward the workbench, “and all the questions you won’t answer, and potential magical terrorists in muggle London, you just blasé inform me of another case?”

“Yes.” His tone was light, his posture relaxed but still the steely look remained in his eyes. Hermione paused, forcibly quelling the rising irritation at her boss.

_He’s always twenty steps ahead._

“It’s all connected isn’t it…” Hermione said, gesturing with the memo in her hand. Raine smirked with a knowing twinkle in his eye.

“You tell me Little Bird.”

Hermione sighed put upon and scanned the document in her hand. It was from Gringotts to the DRCMC but also had stamped and co-signed from departments in the German Ministry.

“I need you to go to the canteen and grab a coffee. On your way, drop this off with Selwyn,” Raine handed her the vial containing diaphanous liquid. “Then you need to go grab the portkey that should be waiting for you. I’ve just sent the memo so it should be ready by the time you get there.” Hermione looked up at Raine, her mouth hanging open slightly while her brain struggled to catch up.

“I appreciate you’ve had a long day Little Bird, but things are in motion now, so you can’t afford to waste time.” He turned her gently and started to steer her through the gardens.

“Bu -”

“No,” Raine’s tone brokered no argument. “When you get to Germany, you’ll take a secondary portkey to the Black Forrest.” He tapped the memo in her hand. “I’ll message ahead now to ensure it’s ready for you.” He held out his hand to help her across the bubbling brook. “There, you’ll need to find somebody I believe you already know, Bill Weasley?”

Hermione stumbled on the path as she gaped at him. He raised an eyebrow at her, quietly demanding an answer.

“Yes.”

“Good. Work with him, figure out whatever this request is for. It might not be for us.” He gestured to the document again.

_Request for an immediate second opinion from DRCMC UK – intercepted by DoM._

_Curse breaker on-site RE: Gringotts UK, contacted by Luca Wagner, Overseer of Black Forrest._

_Intel: Site is a known hotspot. No more information can be provided via insecure channels._

_Response needed ASAP._

The memo didn’t explicitly state that there was a quandary, however, Hermione could see that there were too many players on one page, as well as the air of urgency implied in the message to not warrant further investigation.

For the life of her, Hermione could not see how this could possibly be connected.

“Make sure you get coffee. That is important. Probably the most important thing you will do today,” Raine said in a particularly impish way as if he were sharing a secret with her. Hermione nodded dumbly; she felt thoroughly perturbed from the emotional rollercoaster that had been this conversation. She was used to Raine’s random approach to teaching, she was used to his erratic mood swings, but his performance this evening was something else. Something worse.

Something new.

Her stomach rolled.

Ahead of her, the black gilded chamber door stood proudly amongst the swaying Fairy Grass. Raine went ahead, performed the sequence of taps with his wand and opened it. He stood to the side and watched her approach with his hand in his pockets. Hermione stopped and searched her mentor’s face for any answers to her multiplying questions, while he appraised hers.

“When is something truly impossibilité?” Hermione whispered gently, the breeze of the ‘murder fields’ made the tendrils of her loose curls dance across her face. Raine’s mouth twitched into a sad smile.

“When fate determines that it is not the time.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed with more questions as she stepped toward the doorway. The warded shroud of deep black loomed before her. She stood on the precipice of the doorframe, her stomach rolled again. She looked back at Raine and drew a shaky breath, the uncertainty of what lay in her next step was crushing her chest.

“I’ve got you, Little Bird,” Raine said quietly. Hermione shook out her hands and faced the doorway. “Don’t forget the coffee.”

And with Raine’s parting order, Hermione was swallowed by the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts and theories!


	5. Plexure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my Chickidees. I need your opinions!! This chapter was originally meant to be double the size it currently is being posted at, with three more plot characters perspectives included. So far, (excluding the intro) each chapter has been around 10k, this one being the longest standing at 13k. My question you beautiful readers, is would you have preferred the other three characters to have been included in this chapter? I haven't included them because I personally felt like 25k of 3 different plots might have been a bit much, but you're the consumer at the end of the day. Let me know what you honestly think. If you prefer this broken-down character dev chapter by chapter differentiation or plot progression chapter by chapter. Because I can't decide and I value every single one of your opinions. 
> 
> Again, all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Also, potential trigger warnings - violence, panic attacks, kidnapping, inferred riots and civil unrest.

**_‘Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?’_ **

**_‘To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.’_ **

**_‘The dog did nothing in the night-time.’_ **

**_‘That was the curious incident,’ remarked Sherlock Holmes._ **

_\- Arthur Conan Doyle_

**Chapter 5 - Plexure**

* * *

* * *

**_01:45 am, 9 th of September 1999 _ ** _**-** _ _**Department of Magical Law Enforcement, British Ministry.** _

_Potter,_

_I would really appreciate it if you would –_

Harry crunched the parchment into a tight ball before he leant back in his chair and volleyed it into his bin. _Five points._ He smirked to himself as he cracked his knuckles and picked up his quill to get back to the admin of the evening; admin he kept getting distracted from by a persistent, criminal, pain-in-his-ass. Harry hadn’t bothered to read any of the messages that Nott had sent to him. He’d ignored the owl that had been tapping at his window at Grimmauld Place before he left – not that he had known it was Nott’s owl at that the time, he had just been running late. However, the very same owl had appeared at his desk fifteen minutes later, adamant on delivering the note. Harry had been dismayed when he learnt that Nott was requesting an audience with him about a subject he wouldn’t divulge on paper. So Harry had assumed it was something to do with his arrest and subsequent release, which left him with an unfortunate conundrum. He knew that he should see Nott, but his ego still smarted from the injustice of that morning; having to let Nott go after being so adamant of his guilt was just laughable. Not to mention he still didn’t trust Nott because he still had a file on all of the other crimes he was suspected of. And the fact that Robards would probably assign him janitor duties if he continued to entertain any notion of an investigation into the Mumbles.

No, Harry was a good employee. He would take liberties when he could, like an extra five minutes on a coffee break. But right now, he couldn’t afford to go against an order.

Even though he knew the orders were wrong and definitely suspicious.

Even though his teenage self was throwing a mega tantrum at the thought of adhering to rules when his instincts were screaming bloody murder.

But this was a different time. Back then, there had been a war. A clear distinction between good and evil. Corruption had been everywhere and had Harry not broken the rules, who knew what would have happened…

 _No_ , he reasoned with himself for the hundredth time as his eyes travelled back to the bin, _there is no need to go against orders. Robards is a good man. I was just tired, seeing things where there wasn’t anything. I’ve been too frustrated I’m now fabricating crimes to investigate. I must be! Robards is a good man… and Nott is not._ With the axis of good and evil back in alignment within his mind, he settled in to his work, physically shaking off his thoughts as he did.

Subsequently, Harry immediately had begun to day-dream again and had been ever since.

Over the course of the three hours that Harry had been at work, the same owl had appeared three more times upon the hour, each time returning with increased levels of attitude.

Aside from the chaos around the office and the unusual one-sided correspondence, Harry felt like something was off-kilter, which was perhaps another reason why he struggled to focus on his work. He had checked his reflection several times on the way in to make sure there wasn’t a smudge of toothpaste in his stubble; he’d checked the zipper of his fly and his belt buckle repeatedly enough to become paranoid that people might think he was touching himself inappropriately in the office; he’d patted his holster and the pockets of his robes every fifteen minutes to ensure he hadn’t left his wand on the kitchen counter. No matter how many times he’d checked, they all remained exactly as they should be: wand in holster, belt buckled, fly zipped, beard sans toothpaste. And yet the keen feeling of ‘off’ still persisted.

Harry had awoken from his sleep as violently as he had succumbed to it earlier that morning. He’d come too with a crushing pressure between his shoulder blades; immediately panic had shot through his veins, vanquishing the soothing pill of sleep as he burned with adrenaline. Except, the external display of this transition is never nearly as elegantly precise as the internal, and so in an attempt to kill his would-be demon murderer, Harry had swung his arm and body around with a shockingly loud “NGAARGH”. The sound, reminiscent of a sea-lion’s mating call, reverberated throughout his room and was quickly followed by a calamitous **t** **hump** as the momentum from the initial flail of his limbs took his body soaring from the bed and into an ungainly heap on the floor. He had lain there while he assessed whether his soul had vacated his body. Assured that he was still alive, Harry had opened his eyes and was met with the sight of Crookshanks’ squashed face peering over the side of the bed to glare at Harry with bored disapproval.

It was upon later reflection, when he was ensconced safely in his cubicle, that Harry realised that the many jokes he had made to Hermione over the years, of Crookshanks trying to kill him, was prophetically true! Obviously, after realising his attempt at suffocation and subsequent braining had failed to finish the job, the orange fluff had made a concerted effort to get under Harry’s feet at every possible venture: whilst he ran around getting ready for another nightshift, hopping as he tugged on his trousers; whilst going down the stairs; then back up the stairs because he’d left his wand on his bedside table; then back down again; whilst filling his food bowl; after his food bowl was full. Harry squinted, glaring holes into the side of his cubicle as he relived the fluffy demon’s blatant attempts to end his life, and questioned why Hermione refused to acknowledge that he was in danger. He supposed that could be the reason as to why something felt wrong. Fearing for one’s life before having ingested any coffee was an acute form of torture now that he was no longer a spritely adolescent.

Granted, the only threat to his life was a tufty hellion. A significant downgrade from previous events in his life.

But that was beside the point.

The other thing of note was that Hermione hadn’t been there when he’d awoken that evening. This was not necessarily an unusual event, but the lack of note was. She usually sent a Patronus when she was bogged down in research. For a moment, he entertained the notion that this was a conspiracy between her and the wicked wastrel of a feline so that Hermione could have plausible deniability. He’d catch her in a couple of hours, he would just have to wait for breakfast to place a formal complaint about the feline assassin living rent-free in the house and inquire as to whether or not she was still pissed about the dish debacle from the previous week.

Harry looked out of his cubicle into the chaotic bullpen. He supposed the pervasive mania in the atmosphere might be the cause for a restless sense of wrong. Aurors were running back and forth, their robes flapping as they waved intelligence reports, wearing harangued expressions on their faces. When Harry had arrived that evening to the office in the midst of the blitz, his heart had spiked a rhythm of hope. He’d assumed it was because of the Mumbles Murder, as he’d dubbed it in his head. But no. A large portion of the DMLE had been seconded by the DoM to help with investigations into a terror attack on muggle London. So much about that had Harry’s blood singing for a brief moment in time. The DoM rarely seconded the DMLE, they’d usually only secure a singular Auror here or there. Not an entire team. But still, everyone was having to pull over-time to pick up the slack and so Harry assumed he would be needed in the field too.

Which he was…needed that is. Just not in the field.

Someone still had to pick up the entirety of the department’s paperwork after all.

Harry’s gaze drifted to his desk that groaned under the weight of files that had been haphazardly thrown on there.

Or, he ruminated, the feeling of ‘off-kilter’ was perhaps because Robards had greeted Harry with a raised hand and stern scowl.

“ _Move on,_ ” he’d gruffed before Harry could finish drawing his breath to ask about the Mumbles. _“I never want to hear of it again or there will be serious consequences._ ” He had pointedly looked to, what was then dubbed as Paperwork Mountain, before he’d swept away from Harry cubicle, growling something to another Auror as he passed.

Harry couldn’t kid himself anymore. Robards didn’t want him free from his desk, at least not for the next decade by the size of Paperwork Mountain. And the implication was obvious, if Harry disobeyed and continued his investigation, he’d lose his job. And so Harry had done approximately no work for his entire shift, and instead: daydreamed, had exactly two existential crises, fended off an increasingly sassy bird and formed a mental ‘pro’ and ‘con’ list about his career as an Auror. As it stood, ‘pro’ proudly held ‘childhood ambition achieved’, ‘potential to do good and help’. ‘Con’ could neatly be surmised as literally everything else about the job.

_But everyone has to pay their dues, don’t they?_

A gust of wind disturbed his impossible hair as a large white owl that was predominantly specked with a rich umber across his wings and tail, landed with aplomb on the teetering Paperwork Mountain. Harry couldn’t decide if it was the owl’s quirky mannerisms that he’d grown gradually accustomed to over the course of the past couple hours or the way that the owl looked completely and utterly wired with his massive yellow eyes and messy feathers that framed its permanently manic expression, that him grinning in amusement at the bird’s return.

The owl stared at Harry. Harry stared back. Neither moved a muscle as the chaos of the office continued around them. The owl shunted its neck forward aggressively, lending an insane posture to its already tweaked aura.

Harry sighed heavily in defeat and held out his hand. _I’m now being intimidated by fucking birds._ The owl snapped out his leg with fierce conviction and started to gently bob his head back-and-forth threateningly whilst his unblinking wide eyes tracked Harry’s every move as he loosened the scroll. Once freed, the owl circled the top the Paperwork Mountain, before locking onto a particularly precariously balanced red folder. He looked at Harry as he toed the folder from where it sat. Harry and the owl renewed their staring contest to the soundtrack of tumbling paper; the demise of the red folder caused an admin avalanche that slithered to the floor like an oil slick.

After a further beat of unnecessary avian aggression, the owl took flight. Harry surveyed the devastation that it had left behind: the floor was completely covered in at least an inch of reports that were all mixed and intermingled. Harry knew he should feel dread. Anger. Sadness. Something at the sight. The fact of the matter was that he would have to sort through all of this, to find what paper corresponded with what files and in what order. It would take hours, thus making his life a thousand times more difficult. Except, if he were to be asked, he would honestly respond that he felt like he needed a nap.

That being said, _Destruction of Paperwork Mountain_ was placed neatly in the ‘Con’ portion of his list.

Harry eyed the scroll the owl had delivered. He heaved a heavy put-upon sigh and unfolded the thick parchment. The parchment was of excellent quality, like all the others that evening had been. Unlike the others, that had contained numerous prose written in the finest calligraphy, this one contained two lines:

_Firstly, wow, you are rude!_

_Secondly, don’t give me that look, you have no-one to blame but yourself._

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion at the note.

A throat cleared behind him.

Harry turned to see Theodore Nott leaning against the entrance of his cubicle.

“What look?” Harry said indignantly.

“That look, on your face, right now. Get rid. It has no place in this conversation,” Nott smirked in reply.

“How did you know I’d have a look?” Harry replied. “Maybe this is just my face after being pestered for hours and terrorised by your bird.”

“Oh because you always have a look. Well,” Nott paused and inspected the cuticles of his nails, “you used to have a look back in school. So righteously earnest and completely affronted by any action you disapproved of.” Nott tipped his chin to look down at Harry under a severely pointed brow. “Which was a lot, I might add your Royal Righteousness.”

He suddenly took an exaggerated step into the cubicle to avoid a flock of strident Aurors who were bowling down the corridor, their heads bent low over a report between them, only vaguely aware of their surroundings. Harry and Nott watched quietly as they continued down the corridor and disappeared into an office at the end of the room with the door slamming behind them in finality.

“There was a lot that warranted disapproval,” Harry muttered darkly, as he leant back and inspected Nott from his seated position. The man hadn’t heard him, or if he had, he didn’t show any sign of reaction. Nott was as windswept and refined as he had been earlier that morning. His dirty blonde, wavy locks were casually coiffed in a carelessly precise manner. The dark shadows under his eyes looked like he’d gotten as much sleep as Harry, and his five o’clock shadow was a couple of days old. He’d obviously found time to change though. The perfectly tailored clothes he wore were different from the last they’d met; he wore a deep royal purple over cloak with a stiff collar and fine embroidered detailing that glinted like a flash of a knife under the clinical lights of the office. His black shirt and trousers were pressed into crisp lines. The final touch that leant to the rogue couture ensemble was the knee-high black riding boots. Harry couldn’t decide if Nott looked more like a misplaced pirate or a rather dashing Elizabethan.

He shelved that thought to either revisit it later and unpack it in a safe space, or completely bury it and deny that the thought had ever crossed his mind.

Nott tutted as he continued to survey the office, his face scrunched in consternation.

“What’s happened?” he asked, turning back to Harry.

“I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but this is what doing actual work looks like,” Harry said with superiority. While he knew he was being flippant and dismissive, he was also trying convince himself that he didn’t have time for Nott or his criminal underworld. Like he had been doing all night. Albeit, it was more difficult to persuade himself of this now that the man was stood in his cubicle. Nonetheless, Harry’s ego was still bruised and, though he believed the man’s innocence in regard to the possible-definite murder, Nott had a less than stellar record to boot. Ergo, he was a criminal to Harry, and was just wasting precious work time that Harry absolutely, most definitely, cared about.

“Alright, no need to be cheeky,” Nott replied, holding a hand to his chest to feign hurt; the effect was negated by the smirk that danced on his lips. He eyed the cubicle speculatively and toed the carpet of parchment that covered the floor in its entirety. “In my naivety, am I to assume this is some sort of avant-garde filing system?” Nott’s eyes twinkled with mirth.

“Fuck off, it was your crackhead bird, which - now that we’re on the subject, firstly, what are you feeding that fucking owl? And secondly, what the fuck? Can’t you take a hint?” Harry’s voice rose in exasperation and reached a whiny pitch by the time he had finished his little rant. Quietly in the back of his mind, he noted that he held no anger toward Nott. Which, all things considered of their interactions over the last twenty-four hours, the state of his cubicle should be the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back because it was _his_ fault. Still, Harry was begrudgingly surprised when he realised that underneath his exasperation, he felt the faint tinges of amusement at the flamboyantly dapper swashbuckler.

Again, shelved under possible denial. Will revisit later.

Maybe.

“Of course I take a hint when the hint is valid,” Nott replied as he toed across the limited space to stand in front of the still covered desk. He inspected it and began gently prodding the thick layer of messy parchment that was the ruined remains of Paperwork Mountain. “My need to talk to you, far out-weighs whatever need you possess for not wanting to talk to me. And while I’m all for respecting your right to choose, if matters and circumstances were different, you, my dear stubborn mule, would be free to continue to bury yourself alive in this tomb of parchment.” Nott straightened from his inspection of the desk and with a decisive sweep of his arm, knocked a huge swath of parchment onto the floor to clear a space for him to perch. Harry watched the paper flutter to the ground and again was surprised to realise that he felt no rise of temper or despair. Instead, he idly mused at how thick the layer that covered his floor was.

“So,” Nott said from his now seated position, “yes I got the hint from the many ignored owls – rude by the way - I just really don’t give a shit about it right now. And secondly, Puck eats like a king! Only fresh voles for him, I thank you, sir!” He finished with an exaggerated performance of crossing his arms over his chest, crossing his ankles with a flourished kick, and sticking his nose pointedly into the air with his eyes closed. 

Silence stretched between them.

It grew longer.

Nott remained in his haughty pose.

Harry’s eyebrow rose as he saw Nott crack an eye to peer at him.

“Feel better?” Harry quipped nonchalantly as if asking after the weather.

“Yes thank you,” Nott sniffed, his posture relaxing. Harry nodded and bustled himself for business.

“What do you want then?” he said.

Harry knew he shouldn’t entertain whatever this was, especially not in the office, in his cubicle, under Robards’ nose after his very specific warning. But the part of him that paced like a frustrated hunting dog perked up at the tell-tale signs of a chase and Harry would be damned if he didn’t at least toe the water.

A sudden loud clamour from across the office distracted the pair of them, as they watched a group of Aurors begin to argue, pointing fingers in accusation, while others clambered to settle the dispute.

“Seriously Potter, what’s happened?” Nott muttered quietly out of the side of his mouth while his gaze locked onto the scene.

“Have you not heard? Terrorist attack in Muggle London right around when I arrested you.” Nott looked sharply down at him in alarm. “I guess we both missed it then,” Harry continued, “By the time this office got involved, you’d been let go and I’d was sent home.”

Nott nodded to himself as his grimace deepened.

“Is that what all of this is?” He said sheepishly, gesturing to the paper-covered floor.

Harry snorted indelicately and chuckled bitterly to himself. “Fuck no. This is all the paperwork from all the other cases we have at the moment.”

Nott cocked his head to the side in query. “You’re not working the terrorist case?” He asked, surprise colouring his tone.

Harry shook his head, unable to voice the denial around the dismay he felt at his role of paper-pusher. He cleared his throat, tapped his thumb twice against the arm of his chair and determinedly met Nott’s eye.

“So what is it that is so important?” He questioned, subtly trying to change the subject. The extended look of scrutiny from Nott told Harry told him that it had not gone unnoticed.

“Well, you remember when I said I was looking for a horse?” Nott hedged.

A jolt of fear and excitement shot up Harry’s spine at the confirmation of his suspicions. Nott wanted to speak to him about the Mumble’s probable-definite Murder…except Robards. It would be bad enough if anybody realised he had Theodore Nott, a suspected criminal, in his cubicle, casually having a chat. But if Robards realised what they were discussing, Harry could bet that he would be in serious shit.

The little voice in his head that he squashed in order to be a good, rule-abiding Auror rattled the bars of its cage. It hadn’t stopped nagging over the suspiciousness of it all. Except at the beginning of his shift, Harry’s logical voice had merely just spoken louder to drown it out. But after Nott had asked that question, unaware of the consequences, the caged voice railed against its prison bars with renewed vigour.

Harry looked around, his senses heightened from fight-or-flight. No-one was paying any attention to them and Robards was nowhere in sight.

“The Mumbles case has been handled,” Harry’s logical voice intoned, much to his dismay.

Nott started. “And? Who’s the victim? Was there a murder?” He implored, his voice getting louder with each question.

Harry winced. “Keep your voice down will you?” He hissed, as he frantically looked around. But still, no-one had noticed them. He was paranoid that merely mentioning the farm would summon Robards like an urban legend of a ghost in a mirror.

Satisfied that no-one was about to storm in, Harry turned back to Nott who watched him with curiosity in his eyes.

“You let me go this morning,” he said quietly. Harry nodded in confirmation. “The man who knocked on the door told you too?” Nott continued. Harry nodded again, but with more hesitance. Nott paused, pursing his lips in thought. His foot tapped relentlessly against the floor from where it was hooked over his other.

“Right,” Nott sighed with exaggeration. He slapped his hands against the desk to gracefully push off and strode out of the cubicle in one smooth and fluid action.

Harry sat in his chair, surrounded by paper, blinking dumbly at the doorway in which Nott had disappeared through, utterly confused until the blonde head reappeared back in the doorway.

“Potter, move!” His head disappeared again.

Startled, Harry jumped out of his chair and scrambled to follow him. He looked to his left to see the majestic swish of Nott’s purple cloak heading toward the elevator banks. He looked around the bullpen once more. No-one had either noticed or cared about Nott’s presence. For that matter, no-one had noticed or cared that Harry stood aimlessly in the middle of the corridor. He looked back at his cubicle. The darkened alcove was drab, grey and miserable. Not to mention an absolute state what with all the wrecked files.

He felt the prison bars give on his trapped voice.

With a final glance around the office, Harry spun on his heel and marched toward the elevator banks. His step grew lighter the closer he got. He turned the corner to see Nott leaning in the doorway of an elevator with his hands pocketed, holding it open. His shoulders sagged slightly and a small smile graced his lips at the sight of Harry rounding the corner. Wordlessly, he stepped back into the elevator and Harry followed him in.

They rode in silence, shoulder to shoulder for a couple of minutes. Nott stood tall and proud with an air of entitled belonging that most purebloods carried with them. Meanwhile, Harry’s heart hammered in his chest. _Have I just quit?_ He paused. _No, I’m going to do my job and I’m getting to the bottom of this._ Harry held his breath in an effort to quell his panic. _I’m going to be fired._ He began to count back from one hundred and took a deep breath; the smell of spiced cloves filled his nose. _I’m doing my job and if I get fired for doing my job, then I’ll just have to prove them wrong._ Harry continued to breathe the rich autumnal scent and steadily he calmed. He reflected on how he used to break the rules with abandon, but here, not even two full years later, he was like a timid mouse. Had he really become that brow-beaten in the DMLE? _I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do. Damn the consequences,_ he repeatedly like a mantra, trying to convince himself of his conviction.

The elevator came to a stop in the main atrium. Nott strode ahead with confidence that Harry didn’t feel, his long legs taking him far quickly. Harry jogged to catch up with him.

“Where are we -”

“Not yet,” Nott interrupted in his clipped eloquent baritone. He glanced behind him before he ducked into the visitor’s entry. Harry looked around. No-one was following them. No-one had noticed them.

For the first time that night - for the first time in a while - he felt right. He no longer felt like the world was off-kilter.

Harry ducked through the visitor’s entryway after Nott and hurried through the booth door that the blonde had held open for him. Nott secured the door and picked up the receiver of the phone, engaging the mechanisms and slowly the booth began to rise. Harry shuffled his feet in the cramped space as the smell of spices filled the air once again. He looked up at Nott, whose blue eyes looked back at him questioningly under a severely raised eyebrow.

Harry cleared his throat and tapped his thumb against his leg as he looked away out into the muggle street that was slowly becoming visible through the windows.

Nott sighed and shifted his weight, bringing him closer to Harry’s person, crowding him in the corner.

Suddenly, the booth jolted as it locked into place, causing both men to stumble into each other. Harry felt Nott’s hands on his shoulders, holding him in steady while Harry secured his feet underneath him. _Huh,_ Harry idly thought as he realised his hand rested against Nott’s chest, _his shirt is really soft._

This thought too was shelved for later examination or burial.

Harry gruffed an apology as he righted himself. He felt a pinch of warmth tinge his cheeks and subsequently wished for the ground to swallow him whole. He glanced up at Nott who had yet to open to the door and release them from this new, improvised prison. Nott’s lips twitched into a small smile at Harry before he looked down at his feet, cleared his throat, opened the door, and stepped out into the brisk London night air.

_What the fuck was that?_ Harry drew a breath and mentally shook himself before he stepped out to follow Nott, who had started to saunter down the street.

Burial or denial. Later.

“Seriously, where are we going?” Harry said as he caught up.

“Just up here,” Nott pointed to the end of the street, “best breakfast you’ll ever have. I promise,” he added with a wink.

Silence resumed as they walked side by side up the street. Their respective red and purple robes where extravagant strikes of rich colour against the grey muggle backdrop.

They arrived at a row of all-night café diners. Nott reached for the door of a cosy, retro-looking place called ‘Aunt Betts’ _._ He stood to the side and again, held the door open for Harry, who passed through while throwing Nott an exasperated look. Nott smiled back in faux innocence.

 _Arse,_ Harry thought not unkindly, as they slipped into a burgundy booth. He looked around at the warmly lit room. The diner was decorated like a vintage speakeasy: the walls were exposed redbrick, hemmed by a deep cherry wood; the walls were covered in candid black and white photographs, bookshelves laden with old books and vinyl records; each booth was lit by a low hanging lantern that cast a welcoming glow over each seating area. There were a couple of other late-night patrons dotted around the room, their conversations indistinguishable against the gentle crooning of the swinging big band music that played from the speakers. The smell of coffee and bacon permeated the room, adding to the homey atmosphere and Harry’s stomach grumbled in excitement. A woman with auburn hair that matched the cherry wood and lips that were as red as her painted nails appeared by their table. She briskly flipped open a pad.

“What will it be my dears?” She said with a friendly smile that Harry couldn’t help but return.

“Pot of coffee to share and two full English’s please darling Delilah,” Nott drawled with a rueful grin to the woman. The woman – Delilah, Harry assumed, flashed a coy smile at him before she scribbled the order on her pad and sashayed away; her extravagant, pin-up hourglass curves swayed hypnotically, drawing the eyes of both men as she retreated behind the bar.

“What if I wanted pancakes?” Harry mused, turning back to Nott in mock seriousness.

“Oh don’t be difficult,” Nott scoffed in reply as he leant back in his seat, “you can order breakfast next time. I promised you the best breakfast you’ve ever had and so full English it is.”

Harry struggled to keep himself from smiling. _He’s a criminal. He’s not your friend. This is a business meeting,_ he sternly reminded himself.

_And I’ve just quit my job._

_Possibly._

Instead, he shucked the outer Auror robe and busied himself by rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt. 

“Why have you brought me here instead of staying in the office?” Harry asked distractedly.

Nott barked a laugh in response just as Delilah returned with a steam pot of coffee, milk and two mugs. She placed them delicately between the two men, her eyes lingering on the still chuckling rogue.

“You Gryffindors really are quite stupid aren’t you,” Nott tittered shaking his head to himself as he poured coffee into Harry’s mug.

“Hey! What’s th -”

“I didn’t say that you are less than or bad did I? Just that you don’t think, do you?”

“Well…” The fight and bluster that had ignited so forcefully in denial of Nott’s comment quickly deflated. “Well, no but -”

“But nothing O’Righteous one,” the blonde chuckled as he eyed Harry over his mug. He took a sip before carefully placing it back on the table. “You were the one who was having a conniption about having this conversation in your shitty little office, clearly because your boss is a crook – or so you think anyway.” His blue eyes pierced Harry with a pointed look. “So we left the office…obviously.” Nott finished with a laissez-faire shrug of his shoulders as if that were a clear conclusion.

Which Harry supposed it was. Turn him back a couple of years and he would have come to the same conclusion.

Except he followed rules now…didn’t he?

 _Merlin, what the fuck has happened to me._ Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair and took a sip of his coffee. The hot liquid trailed down his throat and the welcome warmth spread happily from where it settled in his stomach.

“Ok, talk,” Harry said. 

“Right,” Nott said, his demeanour sobering suddenly. “You said the whole thing at the farm had been solved?”

Harry tracked his mind back. “No, I said it’s been handled.”

“What does that mean?”

Harry shifted with discomfort. “I have no idea.” He blew all the air from his lungs. To admit the failings of the DMLE to Nott of all people, logically made zero sense, yet he was the only other person who had been there with him. He was the only other person who _could_ empathise with Harry on this. “Robards, my boss, pulled me from the case this morning, told me to let you go and never mention it again. When I came in this evening, he wouldn’t talk about it at all.” Harry stared at the wood grain of the table. “I just…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. But he’s a good man! So I guess I’m here jumping at shadows,” he finished with a shrug.

Nott hummed quietly as he took another sip of his coffee. “He sounds dodgy to me.”

Harry opened his mouth to refute the claim but felt the words die in his throat. It did sound dodgy. The whole thing stank.

“How about I tell you what I do know and then you can decide what you want to do?” Nott said softly as if trying not to disturb Harry’s contemplation. At Harry’s nod, Nott took another sip of coffee and settled in.

“Remember the horse I told you I was looking for?” Harry nodded. “It was a request from a friend, Thyrra Fallis. She’s a dancer at the club. She’s been with us for ages now. Anyway,” Nott took another sip of his coffee, “a couple of days ago, she asked me to find this horse, Keffle doer or something like that. So off I fuck around London looking for this thing.”

Harry’s brow scrunched in confusion. “But how did she managed to lose it in the first place? Surely someone would have seen a horse wandering around Trafalgar Square?”

“Well, I thought the same thing when she asked. Apparently, this horse kind of comes and goes and does as it pleases.” As if sensing the trail that Harry’s thoughts had begun to head down, Nott pointed a finger at him from where his hand was curled around the steaming mug. “No, as weird as it sounds, it’s a thing. She’s pretty sharp, so if she says that’s the case, then I believe that the horse does what it wants.” He paused and looked at the table, licking his lips again in consternation as if was he hesitating over what to say next. “She’s…” He lowered his voice and leant forward. “Thyrra’s a Selkie, so you know how they are.”

Harry started, his lips parted in surprise. “I know enough… Do they often misplace their horses?”

“Fuck if I know,” Nott quipped, leaning back again. “They’re all…” He waved his hand off to the side. “You know?”

Harry took a long drag of his drink. “Not a fucking clue. So you went looking for the horse?”

Nott lowered his mug back down with a grin and leant forward, his arms crossed on the table.

“I went all over London, chasing rumours of found horses and of Keffle thingymabobs. Anyway, ended up in Skeel Library on a rumour that a horse was being held in the new stables. Turns out the place has no stables. Ergo, false trails.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward, mirroring Nott’s position. “You think someone’s taken the horse?”

Nott nodded with certainty. “ I do now. I asked Renfield about it at the Library and he showed me the address of the Mumbles - which is how I ended up there,” he paused and looked imploringly at Harry as if waiting for him to catch up.

Harry glanced between his blue eyes, uncertain of what Nott was implying.

Nott huffed. “The Mumbles where there _are_ stables. Stables which you seem to think is the scene of a murder.”

“Oh!”

“Merlin wept! How did you even survi-”

“So you think the horse is the murder victim?”

“Granger! That was how you survived.”

“Well, that would make sense with the amount of blood that’s for sure,”

“In all sincerity, what makes you so badass because I’m n-”

“But why would somebody want to kill the horse?”

“When you get like this, is it like a switch where everything just becomes tun-”

“Are you sure it’s a horse you’re looking for?”

“Becau- wait, what?” Nott paused his soliloquy and blinked at Harry in confusion.

“Were you even listening to me?” Harry said indignantly.

“You weren’t listening to me so I don’t see why I shou-”

“Fine,” Harry snapped, flicking his hand in a dismissive motion, “are you sure you were meant to be looking for a horse?”

Nott bit his lip as his expression grew serious. He nodded slowly, “I’m pretty sure. I trust Thyrra, I don’t see why she’d have any reason to lie about what Keffle is considering she asked me to try and find it.”

“Well I can’t think of an obvious motive that someone would have for wanting to murder the horse. So what’s missing?” Harry said.

Just then, Delilah returned to their table laden with two heaped plates with glistening food. The smell of fried sausage, egg and bacon awakened a hunger that Harry didn’t realise he possessed. His stomach let out an embarrassingly loud growl of delight at the sight of the food. He set upon it ravenously, as if it were about to be taken from him at any moment. He realised that hadn’t eaten properly for a couple of days now; his last meal being the half-eaten takeaway that still sat on the kitchen side.

Unless Crookshanks ate it...

Demon feline was trying to starve him out!

Harry narrowed his eyes in distrust as he added that to the list of ways the puffy savage was trying to end his life.

“Do you not like it?”

Harry started and snapped his gaze to his breakfast companion. Nott sat primly, slicing his bacon with impeccable manners, a direct opposite to his own current etiquette.

“Mmph,” Harry swallowed his mouthful and took a swig of coffee. “It’s brilliant. I just figured out another way ‘Mione’s cat is trying to kill me is all.”

Nott’s fork paused midway to his mouth and a grin slowly grew on his face. “Oh do tell,” he purred, “don’t skimp on the details.”

“Later,” Harry chewed on a bacon rind. It really was good. _Fuck Nott, why did he have to be right._ “More importantly, let’s assume it was the horse at the Mumbles, what’s a motive that makes sense?”

Nott swallowed and cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t know if it’ll make any more sense, but the reason why I absolutely had to see you this evening is that Thyrra is missing.”

Harry stopped. The egg that was making the journey from the plate to his mouth, slipped from his fork and landed with a **splat** on his plate below.

“The Selkie’s missing?” Harry croaked.

“Yes,” Nott confirmed. Though he continued to eat, Harry noticed the tense set of shoulders and the tightness around the corners of his eyes.

Harry took a sip of coffee to clear his mouth of food. “How long has she been missing?”

“Honestly I don’t know. The last I saw her was three days ago, but I wasn’t at the club on Tuesday and she has Wednesday’s off so that’s reasonable. Blaise and Pansy wouldn’t have seen her since Tuesday either. But other than that I don’t know. All I know is that I turned up at the club this evening to catch Blaise up on everything and then next thing I know, he orders me to come and get you because Thyrra hasn’t turned up. This was right after I told him you had arrested me for murder.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully as he mopped up the last of his food with the fried bread. He could see why Blaise had jumped to that conclusion. There were too many coincidences and an alarming amount of questions in the narrative so far; it was a logical leap to assume the worst.

The hunting dog that had been pacing in Harry’s consciousness ever since he’d arrived at the Mumbles now skipped and pranced, begging for the hunt. 

“So uh,” Nott hesitated and looked down at the table. “Will you help?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” Harry replied immediately and Nott seemed to relax. “Might lose my job,” he continued as he tapped his thumb against the table and sucked on a tooth, “might have already lost my job,” he amended, “but yes, of course, I’m in. Something’s going on. At the very least, we can find the girl and her horse. At most, we can figure out what the fuck is happening.” He met Nott’s gaze with a tentative smile of his own that was returned in kind.

“Thanks, Potter,” Nott spoke quietly.

Harry shrugged, “I should probably be thanking you. Though we are having pancakes next time, this was actually a really good breakfast.” He grinned at Nott’s smirk.

“So, what first?” Nott said, pushing his finished plate away from him to lean on the table.

“We should find out what Thyrra’s last moves were, speak to the person who saw her last. Is Soteria still open?”

Nott threw him a funny look. “I didn’t realise you were so familiar with it.”

“It’s my job to watch you Nott, don’t kid yourself,” Harry chuckled darkly at Nott’s look of surprise. “So is it still open? Can we go speak to people?”

Nott cast a subtle Tempus charm under the table and nodded in confirmation to Harry. He then stood and pulled out a wallet and placed more than enough muggle cash on the table. Harry glanced in askance at him.

“She's bringing up her little brother, she keeps the tips,” Nott explained with a shrug. He turned on his heel and flicked a brief wave at the kitchen window before he exited the café.

Again, he held the door.

Harry popped his collar against the pre-dawn chill. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the cooled air. His chest felt light, relieved of a pressure he hadn’t realised was there until it was gone. A pressure, he now realised, that had been steadily building over the months in his tragic cubicle.

He felt free.

Harry turned to his companion who was leant against the doorframe of Aunt Betts, quietly watching him. Nott was a puzzle. A riddle. He was a criminal, a dark wizard! Harry was an Auror! Aurors catch dark wizards! Harry had Nott’s file in his desk and the job he may or may not have just quit or been fired from…

His eyes met Nott’s.

Harry could contend that dark wizard or no, at that very moment in time, in the space of a few short hours, Nott had removed the lock from his cage and that would have to be enough…for now.

“We going the muggle way?” Harry said.

Nott snorted and gestured with his head to an alley ahead of them. “Never the muggle way, it’s too slow,” he chuckled, pushing himself from the doorframe to cross the road.

“Well sure, magical was is quicker, but the muggle way has its own charms. You can’t knock it if you’ve never tried it.” Harry’s voice had taken on a scornful note that he unequivocally knew he had picked up from his many years of listening to Hermione’s tirades. But also knew that the marauder on his shoulder was angling for mischief if only the ruffle the feathers of the perpetually put-together pureblood.

“I have a car,” Nott threw over his shoulder as he ducked into the alley.

Harry stopped in his track, unsure if he’d heard correctly. “You have a car?” He repeated, feeling wrong-footed at Nott’s confession. 

“I have a car.”

“But you just said-”

“I didn’t say it was a muggle car,” Nott smirked and offered his arm to Harry with an expectant look on his face.

Harry looked from his arm to his face and back to his arm. His inner marauder wasn’t quite content enough yet to let the matter slide.

Plus, he was curious.

“What do you mean it’s not a muggle car?!”

“Oh for Salazar’s sake Potter, take my arm.”

Harry fought the urge to stamp his foot. “Well I won’t if you’re going to be a brute about it. Why do you have a car?”

Nott stared at him in dismay. “Are you fucking with me right now right?” He growled. Harry remained silent. Nott blew out a breath and lowered his arm. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re really quite petty? Are you finally deciding do be difficult in revenge of your office?”

Harry grinned proudly. “ ’Mione calls me petty all the time.”

“Right… well, yes I have a ca-”

“Merlin’s beard, we don’t have time for this Nott!” Harry said with exaggerated bluster as he grabbed hold of Nott’s wrist and tugged him into a side-along.

The wide-eyed look of disbelief that Nott threw at him before Harry apparated them from the alley, made Harry, to his own surprise, laugh so loudly that it still echoed in the darkened space long after the **crack** had faded away.

*

**_02:57 am, 9 th of September, 1999 - _ ** _**Soteria, Soho, London, UK** _

__

Theo landed heavily on unsteady feet. _Bastard_ , he thought as he looked over to the still giggling brunette beside him. For the umpteenth time that night, he found himself questioning if he had stepped into some alternate dimension. Theo had expected the cold shoulder from Potter and had been fully prepared to go to the office and have an all-out argument with him. He had also been prepared for the inevitable outcome of Potter hexing his arse when he threw him out.

Nowhere in the remit of potential outcomes, did he consider that Potter would be amenable to the idea of helping him with what even he could admit, sounded like a completely transcendental, bordering on negligibly coincidental, chain of events filled with characters that the Chosen One would never tarnish his name with.

Nowhere in the course of his week, did he ever consider that he would take said Chosen One to his secret hideaway spot in London and buy him breakfast, all because he looked very lost in amongst the sad little paper nest.

Nowhere in the projection of his life, did he ever entertain the notion that because the Chosen One looked spooked by his own shadow, that Theo would care enough to step in to attempt to take him away from whatever had frightened him so.

And nowhere in the circumference of his universal standing, did he think it possible that he would see, let alone enjoy on a primal level, the blush that had spread over the Chosen One’s cheeks in the dimly lit booth.

Theo shook his fringe from his eyes and he gently knocked his shoulder into Potter’s. He smirked in satisfaction when the still chuckling man stumbled slightly into the nearby wall.

“Did you know that you’re a twat?” Theo chided as he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He never coped well with apparition anyway, he only opted to do it when he was on a job. Even then, he could stomach them because he was in control. Side-alongs however, were a different ball of nope. Ever since the war, where forced side-alongs had always been his father’s preferred method of getting Theo alone, his nerves couldn’t handle the feeling of being out of control of his position in space and time. Hence he’d bought a car, preferring that means of group travel.

And twice now, Potter had side-alonged him.

Granted the first time hadn’t been so bad, what with being all frozen and all.

He lit his cigarette with a flip of his lighter and inhaled deeply, the scent of tobacco and cloves wrapped around him in a calming blanket. He looked over at his now quietened companion, whose obnoxiously green eyes seemed to gleam in the dim light of the alley they stood in.

“Shall we?” Potter gestured with a tip of his head.

“After you,” Theo replied with a grin that widened as Potter flounced forward in a huff. He hadn’t consciously been aware of his actions until they’d arrived at Aunt Betts. It had just felt right to hold the door open for Potter. If Madam Keeling had seen him behave otherwise, she would have wrapped his knuckled with her twisted cane.

Well, if she’d seen him behave otherwise with a woman that is.

With Potter, she wouldn’t have.

...Maybe.

_Fucking antiquated gender politics._

He took another drag as he followed Potter out into the still bustling streets of Soho. The candlelit alcove of Soteria's entrance was tucked out of the way up ahead. Even in the early hours of the morning, the queue of twenty deep, stood shivering in their minimal clothes. He eyed a group of men appreciatively who chatted animatedly amongst themselves and had opted to use only colourful glitter and feathers to stave off the incoming autumnal chill.

As they slipped past the line, Theo tugged at Potter’s collar to get him to slow down.

“You’re not gonna be let in looking like that,” he said quietly out the side of his mouth.

Potter looked up at him questioningly. “What? Why?” He looked down at himself and back up at Theo. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? I look smart enough!”

Theo rolled his eyes. “That’s not a question. But the glaring red Auror robe is. Some our clientele wouldn’t appreciate your lot showing up, if you get what I mean.”

Potter’s eyes tightened and his mouth pinched in what Theo had dubbed his thinking face.

“What?” Theo sighed.

“So you’re telling me that your club is home to under the bar illegal activity, yes?”

“No, I’m not saying that.”

“But you just said -”

“I know what I said, and I don’t particularly want to stand around here all night going around in circles. Now take your bloody cloak off,” Theo huffed exasperated and held out his hand in waiting. Beside him, he heard Potter grumble to himself as he slipped the red from his shoulders. The leather harness stretched tight across his chest at the movement, drawing Theo’s eye.

He swallowed thickly and walked ahead toward the front door, his hand out still waiting, taking one final drag of his cigarette before flicking the butt into the gutter. When he felt the soft material in the palm of his hand, he breathed the charm as his wand slipped down from his sleeve and pocketed the now shrunken robe securely in his inner seam. Peter, a six-foot, softly spoken New Zealander who was a giant teddy bear until he started snapping bones like twigs, nodded curtly at Theo, who thumbed behind him toward Potter to indicate that they were together. Peter nodded again in acknowledgement and turned back to watch over the line with his intimidating scowl, whilst Theo and Harry ducked behind him and slipped through the darkened doorway to the sound of frustrated groans from those still waiting in line.

They quickly began down the darkened gentle slope that led to a cavernous entry hall where people queued for the cloakroom. The pair slipped through the crowd with ease, dodging a group of cackling women who were euphoric over their amusement and not at all balanced on the fine points of their heels. Theo ducked through the shadowed stone archway at the end of the room that led to the wide, shallow stepped, spiral staircase. Quickly, the two men skipped down the stairs, the sound of their steps softened by the plush carpet in the stone corridor. The temperature began the rise the lower they travelled, the heat from the crushed, writhing bodies below rising to greet them. Steadily, the pounding beat of the bass began to reverberate through Theo’s chest and the lower they descended, the more his ears were able to pick up the dramatic electronic melody that sang hypnotically like siren's call.

The stairs opened out onto a veranda that overlooked the main dance hall. Below, Theo could make out a mash of bodies, only separated here and there by the dancer’s columns. He ducked to the right and skirted around a couple in the midst of some serious heavy petting, dodged another couple screaming at each other and side-stepped a raucous group of laughing people that were making their way toward the cloakroom above. He assumed that Potter was glued to his tail in amongst all these people. The devil in him wanted to see how well the Auror could tail him.

_Hunt, not tail._

Theo coughed and scraped a hand through his hair as he blinked away the intrusive thought.

_Focus._

He looked over the balcony again to the dance floor below, then around the booths that were tucked into the walls of this floor, lining the veranda. There was no way that one could describe the club as quiet – the dance floor was packed and there were at least thirty people between the booths and the balcony – but still, for Soteria’s standards, it was a quiet night. He narrowed his gaze as he focused on the people around him, while he traversed the winding maze with ease. Through every stairwell and trick-corridors, his concern grew. Though people were smiling and sipping their drinks in the darkened corners, there was an air of unease in the building. Those conversing were leant close together, their expressions serious with concern rather than flirtation; those who were dancing, danced with abandon as if this were their last night on Earth. Instead of the usual frivolity of coy looks and wide smiles, wandering hands and swaying hips, every person on the dance floor seemed to be lost by themselves in the hypnotic beat of the bass, their chests glistening with sweat, their eyes closed in surrender as they moved with a complete disregard for reality. Theo slipped into the writhing crowd to make his way toward Blaise’s booth, confident that Potter would keep up. No one was disturbed from their trances by his presence. Theo couldn’t decide if it was the lack of come-hither glances that made him uneasy or the overwhelming ominous atmosphere.

He broke out the other side and spied a silhouette in the booth. It was only when he skipped up the steps up the dais, did he look behind him for Potter. A wry grin spread across his face as he saw the messy raven locks two steps below him.

“Well?” Blaise's voice asked in an imperious tone from his chair.

“Blaise,” Theo sang cordially, putting on all the airs and graces Madam Keeling had whipped into him. “May I formally introduce you to Auror Potter,” he finished with an exaggerated bow in Potter’s direction as the man reached the top of the dais to stand next to him. Potter sent him a scowl and nudged him in the ribs with a pointy elbow.

“Stop being a git,” he grumbled from the side of his mouth.

“Oh my apologies. You’re the only one who gets to be a git, is that correct?” Theo drawled insincerely.

“Yes, that is right,” Potter said, drawing himself up in righteous challenge.

“Boys!”

Theo’s rebuttal died on his lips. If he hadn’t been watching Potter face, he would’ve missed the subtle wince at the reprimand.

“Apologies Zabini,” Potter said offering a hand to shake. Blaise flicked a quick glance in askance at Theo, who offered a minute shoulder shift at the unspoken question. _No, I haven’t a fucking clue why he’s being so nice but don’t question a lion’s generosity._

Blaise greeted Potter in his host like manner, with warm smiles and platitudes whilst Theo settled himself into the seat furthest in the booth.

“So cutting straight to the chase, Miss Fallis is still missing yes?” Potter said, his grumbling voice cutting through the synthetic bass as he took the seat next to Theo. He wore the same severe expression that he had when he’d interrogated Theo: pin-point focus, his green eyes that gleamed wildly under his manic ‘just fucked’ hair, his high cheekbones accentuated by the dark stubble that coated his sharp square jaw.

Theo cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

_Focus…who’s talking…_

Blaise held a bottle of whiskey aloft in gesture to Potter, who declined the offer with the twitch of his finger.

“Yes, she’s still missing.” Blaise continued, pouring a glass and passing it to Theo before focusing back on Potter. “We’ve had Andrews, the guy behind the bar at the moment, he’s a friend of hers. Anyway, Andrews went over to her place not long after Theo left to come and get you. She didn’t answer, lights off and all that.” Blaise heaved a heavy sigh, a worried knot forming in his brow as he took a sip from his tumbler.

Theo reached into his pocket and withdrew another cigarette. “Cist Aerem Vazduh,” he muttered wandlessly as he snapped his fingers, igniting the cigarette that hung between his lips.

“Right, any other developments? Do you know who saw her last?” Potter said as he leant forward, his elbows on his knees. He seemed to unconsciously begin trailing a finger over his bottom lip, deep in thought as he waited for the reply.

_Focus._

“As we speak, Pansy is looking over the tapes from Thyrra’s last shift. See if she can see anything of interest. We’ll let you know what she finds…” Blaise paused as if caught on a thought. His eyes flicked between Theo and Potter before he swallowed and licked his lips. “Uh,” he swiped a hand over the back his neck, “you’re really with us on this Potter? You’re really gonna help?”

Potter jolted, his brows disappearing under his disordered fringe. “Nott asked this. Of course I’m helping, why are you both so surprised? It's my job.”

Theo took a long drag from his cigarette. The blue curls of smoke twisted around his head, hiding him from scrutiny. He watched as Blaise measured a lengthy assessment of Potter. Though Theo knew the keen sense of gratitude that Blaise felt in this moment, he also knew that asking for help puts one at a disadvantage. One is now beholden to the person in gratitude and repayment. It was the way that they were raised. From a parent’s love to answers on their homework, nothing was ever given freely. And considering that their standing in society was what it was, asking the guy who put most of their parents in prison to help them seemed a bit…gauche, if not incredibly naïve.

Potter looked over at him and went to turn away before doing a quick double-take, his face a picture of confusion.

“I can’t smell it,” he said in surprise, gesturing to the cigarette he held loosely between his fingers.

Theo flashed a toothy grin. “Muggles don’t like it when you smoke indoors. I cleaned the air.”

“Oh,” Potter replied and appeared, to Theo’s best estimation, to pout, before he turned back to Blaise. Theo wondered for a moment if it was a Gryffindor trait to wear every emotion they’d ever felt on their face, open for the world to read, or if it was just a quirk of one of the most famous, watched and photographed wizards of their generation.

“Of course I’m going to help. Somewhere in this weird chain of events, a crime has been committed. My job is to police that. Why is that such a surprise?” He asked again.

Blaise smiled softly before he took another sip of his drink. “Because your kind Potter, don’t help our kind.”

Theo chuckled to himself as he watched Potter draw breath to refute the statement, his face emblazoned with his familiar endearing righteousness.

“Where do you want to start then Officer?” he croaked, smoke curling from his mouth as he leant forward to stub out his cigarette in the lantern. Blaise tutted and quickly vanished the squished remains, throwing a fierce scowl in reprimand at him. Theo smiled sweetly in response before focusing his attention back on Potter.

The brunette looked toward the bar in thought, tapped his thumb twice against the table and asked, “ ‘s that Andrews?”

“Yes. If you tell him that we’ve sent you over, he’ll talk to you,” Blaise replied.

Potter nodded shortly, exited the booth and headed towards the bar. Theo watched as he walked with determination, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, entirely focused on his target. _He’s rather intense,_ Theo mused as he watched the dark figure approach the bar.

The familiar timbre of Blaise’s voice pulled him from his reverie.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Theo said.

Blaise raised a haughty eyebrow. “Are you checking him out?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are.” Blaise laughed.

“I am not!”

“Yes you bloody are! Bloody Harr-”

“Fuck off,” Theo groused, pulling another cigarette from his pocket and igniting it. Blaise watched him, a smirk twitching in the corner of his mouth, threatening to take over.

Theo raised an eyebrow in warning.

Blaise took a sip of his drink, breaking eye contact.

Theo relaxed into his seat in victory. “Quiet night tonight,” he commented after a beat.

“Attack at Waterloo this morning. There have been riots breaking out here and there across London,” Blaise intoned darkly.

“Why’s that?”

“Muggle politics I think. Been brewing for a while. Think the attack was just the spark that lit the fuse,” he commented looking out to the dance floor. “But the Brits have that 'Carry On' mentality don’t they, so we’re not empty. There’s plenty of people out and about, still carrying on as if it’s business as usual. But there’s a feeling you know? It’s not happiness, sadness or anger. No, it’s more insidious than that.” He took a sip from his drink. “Desperation.” He spoke almost to himself as he watched the floor sway. From the dais, the low flashing lights of the dance floor made the bouncing bodies look more like an angry high tide. With every stern beat, the crowd would crest its bounce, hands poised in the air in exhalation, faces tipped to the sky in worship. The lights were too low to pick out individual details, thus amalgamating them into one heaving and breathing mass.

“I have a job for you,” Blaise said quietly, changing the topic. Theo froze, mid-flick of his cigarette and dragged his eyes away from the crowd to stare at Blaise in disbelief.

“I need sleep,” he whined. “Between the fucking horse, Potter arresting me, then Thyrra, I haven’t had a decent eight hours in days!”

“Well you can go another day more. This is an urgent one, big money and,” he held his hand up to stop Theo’s interruption. “Yes, I know. This is not an opportune time but we’ve still got a business to run. With Potter on the case, as well as Pansy and the Mice and me running this place, we can spare you to do a job,” he finished with an expectant look on his face.

Theo huffed a plume of smoke and nonchalantly replied, “I know you’re not about to ask me to do a job straight after you asked me to bring an Auror into our circle.” He levelled Blaise with a mirrored expectant look.

Blaise sucked his tooth and glanced at the bar. “It’s not that bad. It’s just a manuscript.”

“Manuscript?” Theo replied in confusion. “What’s the catch? Is it in a palace or impenetrable vault or something?”

“No, nothing like that. Yale,” Blaise replied.

Theo blinked. “University?” Blaise nodded. “A manuscript from Yale…and this is urgent?”

“Well from the amount that the buyer is willing to pay, yeah, it’s urgent.”

“How much?”

“More than the Blue Bell of Asia job a couple of months ago.”

Theo hacked a cough, choking on the smoke he inhaled too sharply. He thumped a fist to his chest as Blaise leant over to fill his now empty glass with a finger of whiskey. Theo grasped the glass and knocked back the contents, relishing in the soothing burn. He took a shuddering breath, his lungs protesting from the exertion.

“But that’s…” Theo rasped.

“A few million,” Blaise finished quietly.

“For a manuscript?”

Blaise shrugged. “Like I said, it’s apparently urgent.”

Theo hummed as he gently took another pull from his cigarette. He looked over to the bar at Potter who was deep in conversation with Andrews. Theo could see from his seat on the dais, the loose set of his shoulders, a marked difference from how he’d found him in that dire little cubicle. The combination of the dark clothes, the scruff, the hair, eyes, the rolled sleeves… Potter had grown up to be a dangerous-looking man – when he wasn’t being buried alive under parchment.

_Focus._

“How we going to keep it from him?” He asked, turning back to Blaise. A knot of unease settled in his chest. He didn’t want to do anything that could potentially give Potter reason to fuck them over, not when he was so graciously helping them with Thyrra.

“I’ll leave that to you,” Blaise shrugged, taking another sip from his glass.

Theo took the final drag, finishing the cigarette and stubbed it out in the lantern again – much to Blaise’s dismay.

“When?”

“They left two international portkeys. The red one activates tomorrow, the tenth. The second one, the blue one only activates when you do it. That one will bring you home.” Blaise reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded black handkerchief. Theo pocketed it with a grunt.

“That’s thoughtful of them. Don’t usually get that sort of treatment.”

“Like I said,” Blaise impressed, “they want it. They’re going to do everything they can to get it.”

The air shifted and Theo looked up to see Harry fold himself into the seat beside him.

“Andrews said that Tassa was the last to see her on Tuesday, but she’s gone home. Can you get her to owl me tomorrow Zabini?”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“No, not for the moment. I’m gonna head to Miss Fallis’ place, check it out. Andrews gave me the address,” he said, his thumb tapping rhythmically against his thigh.

“Want company?” Theo asked before he could stop himself. The force of the restraint from outwardly showing his wince caused him visceral pain. He saw Blaise’s smirk from the corner of his eye.

“Uh, sure. If you’re up for it,” Potter looked over to him, confusion colouring his features. “You up for leaving now? Or do you have something else you need to do before we go?”

Theo warmed slightly at the consideration and shook his head, lifting himself from the chair.

“Nope, we’re good. Lead the way dear.”

Potter stood and offered his hand to Blaise who shook it firmly. “I’ll keep in touch and if you learn anything new or remember something, let me know, no matter how small it is.”

“Thanks, Potter,” Blaise said with a genuine smile. “You keep in touch too,” he said turning to Theo.

“Yes mother,” Theo grouched, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Ready?” He said, turning pointedly to Potter, who nodded whilst looking out over the dance floor, his brow furrowed in thought. Theo reached forward to gently tug at his sleeve to get his attention. Round green eyes focused on him in shock and Theo gestured with a tip of his head toward the exit.

“You ready?” He repeated. Potter tipped his chin and with a final wave to Blaise, hopped down the dais steps.

“Tomorrow Theo,” Blaise called from behind him. Theo raised a hand over his shoulder in acknowledgement as he followed Potter into the angry sea.

*

**_03:45 am, 9 th of September, 1999 – Kentish Town Road, Camden, London, UK_ **

****

Harry brushed back his hair as Nott stepped away from him. He hadn’t argued this time when Nott had offered a side-along. He reasoned with himself that it was because he didn’t know where the Selkie lived – which was true-ish, her address was in his pocket – but he would be lying if he didn’t also acknowledge that it was a small concession for being difficult earlier that evening. Nott strode on ahead in silence, headed toward a polished modern apartment block.

The road was quiet. A fox skittered behind a car further up the road. The gentle breeze slithered the leaves that had begun to fall across the ground, filling the air with the harsh hiss of autumn. In the distance, Harry could hear the hum of London. The city itself was never quiet, what with business never ceasing and the rumble of the tube network beneath their feet going at all hours. But as he stood there, the air shivered around him, as if holding a bated breath. Harry frowned slightly as he heard an unfamiliar percussive staccato accompanying the usual ambient sounds of London.

Without breaking his stride, Nott’s wand slipped out from his sleeve as he approached a tall metal door. He performed an unfamiliar wrist flick, his voice too low for Harry to catch, He heard the gears **tick** and **creak** before the locking mechanism opened for them with a deep **thunk.** Harry caught his eye in askance as Nott slipped through the door.

“Alohomora only works a treat on traditional lock and key mechanisms, but it’s too simple for muggle electronic locks,” he hushed as he made a beeline for the stairwell. “You can’t just hijack the circuit; magic and electricity being like oil and water an’ all. The trick is getting the magic to fuck with everything else around the circuit, forcing the breakers to do as you want,” he calmly instructed as he took the stairs two at a time.

“You’ll have to teach me that,” Harry said breathlessly as he tried to keep up. _Damn his long legs. Damn being chained to a desk for so long._

Nott swung open a door on the second-floor plateau and silently ducked into the shadowed corridor, reaching back to hold the door open wide enough for Harry to slip through under his arm. For a brief moment, the smell of cloves and tobacco filled his senses before he stepped into the hall. He looked back at Nott who gestured to their right. Silently, they strode past the neighbouring apartment doors, their footsteps cushioned by the thin carpet.

“Alohomora,” Nott breathed from behind him and the door they were nearing at the end of the hall clicked opened. Harry stopped at the door frame and drew his wand from his holster and leaned in to listen through the gap.

The apartment beyond was silent.

That didn’t mean it was empty: for all Harry knew, there could be a madman with his wand pointed at the door waiting to Avada anybody who stepped through. He waited a moment, his breath held.

Still no movement.

Slowly, he toed the door open, his wand raised. He cleared the first corner to his left. He glanced at the empty room beyond before swinging the door the rest of the way open to clear behind it.

So far, so silent.

He felt Nott’s presence at his six.

He stepped into the room, his knees bent ready for action, his steps careful with each tread. The room was a living room kitchenette, with a studio staircase that led up to a loft area and one door underneath it. He locked eyes with Nott's and gestured for him to clear the loft. The blonde nodded and began to creep up the stairs, while Harry swept the living area for any dark corners before breaching the closed-door under the staircase. He gently twisted the doorknob and pushed it open a crack.

He paused.

No sounds came from within.

He toed open the door and realised that the room beyond was pitch black. He wordlessly cast a low light from his wand, enough to illuminate his immediate vicinity without shining through the windows of the apartment.

It was a bathroom.

Harry quickly cleared the corners of the room, checking behind the shower curtain as he did before he released the breath in his chest. Everything on this level seemed to be as it should. He hadn’t seen anything that would indicate foul play. He stepped out into the living area again. The kitchenette was clean: the sink was clear, the surfaces spotless. He walked around the sofas, they too were immaculate: the cushions plumped, the blankets folded precisely over the back of a comfy looking reading chair. On the coffee table, a pile of magazines were spread out in an even fan; the fern plant in the centre, a healthy green.

“Potter!” Nott called from upstairs. His voice carried an edge that had Harry flying up the stairs so fast, that he had already reached the top and was stalking through what seemed to be a library area toward the illuminated doorway at the end before he became consciously aware of his actions.

“What have you found?” Harry said, stepping into the room.

He froze, taking in the scene.

The bed was ruined. The duvet was strewn across it, half hanging on the floor. The mattress had deep tears through it as if someone was trying to find purchase whilst being dragged toward the door. As he looked around the room, he saw some pillows lying randomly in places; atop a chest of draws, leant against a wardrobe, kicked half under the bed. Everything else in the room was immaculate, just like it had been downstairs.

They had been efficient. They didn’t give her time to fight back before they had her out of the apartment.

He cast a trace and similarly to the stables found no signature.

Harry leant over the bed, careful to not disturb the evidence too much, to examine the shredded mattress. The tears were clean, made with claws. The Selkie had come too enough to shift that much before they’d whisked her off at least.

Harry looked around the room again, cataloguing the lack of destruction. Nott stood off to the side, his eyes locked on to the bed, gnawing his lip worriedly as he twirled his wand restlessly between his long fingers. Harry stepped out through the library.

Again, pristine.

He stalked out to the top of the staircase, overlooking the living area. The orange glow from streetlights outside spilled in through the open curtains. The place was untouched. Homey. But untouched.

Except for the bed.

The hairs raised on his neck.

Harry looked back to the bedroom, where Nott now stood in the doorway, quietly watching him think.

Back to the room below.

Untouched.

They’d known exactly how to break in without making a noise, so as to not disturb her till the final moment _and_ where to find her.

Which meant one of two things.

He spun on his heel and stalked across the room, grabbed Nott and apparated away.

They landed heavily in a tangled mess of long limbs outside of Grimmauld Place.

“Fuck’s sake Potter, will you stop fucking doing that!” Nott hissed, righting himself. He scowled down at Harry, his mouth pinched, his face pale. “Let me know first please, I beg you.”

“Let you know what?” Harry said, straightening his glasses. He glanced around, his adrenaline still running high, his thoughts preoccupied.

“That you’re going to side-along me. I can’t -”

Harry’s gaze snapped to Nott at the hitch of his breath. His shoulders were tight, his knuckles white from where he clenched his fists, his blue eyes downcast over his pinched mouth. Harry reached for him, gently pulling the rich purple cloak more securely closed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly. Nott’s tense face morphed into one of shock. “I’ll give you a warning next time.”

Nott’s blue eyes searched his; the quiet of Claremont Square quelled their still racing breaths.

Finally, his fists unclenched slowly as Nott blew out a breath. “Want to tell me what that was about then?” he croaked.

“Not here, tea?” Harry said as he pulled away and walked toward his home.

_I have officially gone off the deep end._

Harry raised his wand releasing the Fidelius charm and hopped up the steps to open his door.

_Because I know I’m not about to invite a suspected criminal into my home am I…_

“Welcome to my humble abode. Do mind the ginger demon,” he chirped, shaking his head in disbelief as he headed towards the kitchen. He heard Nott shut the door behind him and follow him in.

“Your home?” Nott asked quietly as he stepped into the kitchen. Harry nodded as he placed the kettle on the hob. “Why?”

Harry shrugged. “Honestly, I didn’t intend to bring you here. But I knew we had to get out of there and so here we are. How do you take it?” He said, turning to Nott who was stood, looking lost, by the kitchen table.

Nott looked away, scrapped a hand through his hair and swallowed heavily. “Strong, leave the teabag in. No milk.”

Harry baulked. “Heathen,” he muttered, pouring the boiling water into the two mugs. “You may as well get comfy.” He heard Nott shuffle into the living room and the creak of one of the chairs adjusting to a new weight.

Harry leant his hands on the counter as the tea steeped and tried to organise his thoughts. In the last twenty-four hours, he’d gone from never-ending admin misery to suspecting his boss, siding with Theodore Nott, potentially quitting his job and or been fired, shook Zabini’s hand and now had said questionably criminal wizard in his living room. He tapped his thumb against the counter and straightened. _In for a sickle…_

He picked up the steaming mugs and carried them through to the living room. Nott was sat primly in the large reading chair by the fire. It was Hermione’s favourite; she’d rescued it from a shop that was having a closing down sale in Greenwich the year previous. It hadn’t matched any of the décor that Harry had been trying to collect before he had given up his fruitless homemaking venture in favour of living in his cubicle. Harry placed the still steeping tea on the coffee table near Nott, who was squinting suspiciously at the window seat.

“What is that?” He said, concern lacing his voice.

Harry followed his pointed finger to see a large orange ball of fur with no discernible features.

“The ginger demon. Don’t worry, he’s not very subtle in his attempts at murder. You’ll be fine.”

Nott threw him a cautious glance, only appearing slightly mollified as he reached for his tea. He blew at it, his eyes tracking back to where Crookshanks lay before taking a sip.

“Why…” he said once he’d swallowed.

Harry didn’t ask for clarification; he knew what Nott was asking. He sucked on a tooth, formulating the sentence and ordering his thoughts.

“The place was immaculate. It wasn’t staged, she’s just a fastidious homeowner yeah?” Harry frowned and sipped his tea. “You can tell that because she was in bed yeah?” He licked his lips. “So, that means that whoever came to take her, went straight to her room. Why bother staging the rest of the apartment to just leave her bed in an obvious state.” He took another sip, relishing in the feeling of the warm liquid track down his throat.

Nott hummed in thought. “What are you saying?”

“Well, considering you already believe there to be an active party laying false trails in the case of her horse, and considering the only signs of struggle were from when she was taken from her bed, I’d argue that whoever it was that took her knew when she’d be in bed and knew her apartment well enough to break in without alerting her.” He took another sip, wetting his dry throat. “Therefore, whoever it was either knows her personally and has been to her apartment before or had been watching the apartment entire time.”

“Why -”

“Because a pissed off Selkie is fucking strong Nott, so it would’ve taken a couple of people to get her out of there so cleanly. Not to mention,” he drew a shuddering breath, “manoeuvre a horse around London without being seen. No, this is a group operation and considering the connection between the two, it’s probably the same group. In my experience, less than savoury groups want to cover their tracks. So, they were more than likely watching the apartment to make sure that they could, you know…” he cleared his throat in discomfort, “tie up any loose ends that came knocking.”

Nott sat silently sipping his tea, his eyes unfocused under a furrowed brow.

“So you brought us here when you realised because…”

“Because I know it’s safe and I didn't want us to potentially be killed?” Harry said, confused as to why he had to clarify the point.

Nott frowned into his tea. He opened his mouth but seemed to think better of it. His tongue darted out and he cast a quick glance at Harry, looking increasingly distressed with each passing second. He seemed to steel himself before he finally spoke.

“Thank you.”

Harry offered a small smile in return and then quiet fell upon them as the two men drank the rest of their drinks.

“What next?” Nott asked, the rasp of his voice was like brushed velvet in the stillness of the living room.

“Not much we can do at the moment. We’re going to have to wait for Pansy to finish with the tapes and for Tassa to owl me when she’s awake. Hopefully, that’ll give us a direction to go in. In the meantime, we lay low.” Harry gripped his now empty mug tighter. “I don’t trust Robards’ connection with all of this, so we’re gonna have to write off the DMLE. I don’t know if anyone was watching the apartment, but I don’t want to risk it exposing us, just in case. So, I don’t know about you, but I’m fucked. I need sleep. You’re welcome to take one of the guest beds upstairs if you want?”

_Maybe I should check myself into St Mungo’s. I’m clearly having a breakdown._

“Uh… sure. Thanks, Potter,” Nott replied cautiously.

“Yeah, um…any of the rooms on the first floor are fine to use. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.” Harry stood and stretched. Nott raised himself from the chair with a markedly wary expression on his face. Harry led the way out of the room and up the stairs. Upon reaching the first-floor landing he stopped and thumbed over his shoulder to them.

“Any of these is fine.”

Nott nodded and peered inside the nearest one. He looked back at Potter, his face still tight with doubt.

“Nott, I don’t trust you but you’re safe here. The only thing that may try to kill you is the fluffy horror downstairs.” Harry tried to offer a grin of humour to put the man at ease. For whatever history was between them, they were tangled in this web together.

Nott chuckled to himself. “Right, see you in the morning Potter.”

“Night Nott,” Harry said as he turned and ascended the stairs to his own room, where sleep awaited him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that you've read it beauts, let me know if it would've been better with the other two plotlines included. If you believe so, then I'll re-upload this chapter with them added in, instead of a whole new chapter. 
> 
> Does any of that make sense?!


	6. Alamort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Chickidees!! I haven't responded to your reviews yet on the previous ch (I'll get to that now), but I just wanted to say that I immensely appreciate your feedback. THANK YOU!! I've taken it on board and done some restructuring. The overall consensus is char-by-char and stick to roughly 10k. I'm happy to go along with this my loves if it makes the experience more enjoyable for yourselves. Every now and again, there will be two char plot perspectives in a chapter, but it'll be done in the format of this chapter that you're about to read, and not a full blown exposition, just to keep the plot moving forward. THANK YOU AGAIN!!! As for the three other perspectives I mentioned in the previous chapter, I've edited and re-organised as per all of the aforementioned. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one! PLOT!!! ALL OF THE PLOT! Writing this story is an exercise in patience for me because I just want to download the entire story into all your heads and be like "Ta-da!" It's a strange conundrum I find myself in. 
> 
> Again, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Potential triggers - reference to torture - I don't think there are any others, if you can see anymore, let me know. 
> 
> ...I'm slightly wired, it's nearly 4am here and I have had an unhealthy amount of coffee. Anyway! ENJOY!

**_By the pricking of my thumbs,_ **

**_Something wicked this way comes._ **

_\- William Shakespeare, Macbeth_

**Chapter 6 – Alamort**

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**_09:42 am, 9 th of September, 1999 – Somewhere in the Black Forest, Baden-Württemberg, Germany_ **

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Hermione puffed the hair that had fallen into her face as she hopped over a log. The early morning sun was well in the sky and its cold light glittered like blinking stars in amongst the dense leaves of the thick canopy above. Whilst it made for a scenic walk, Hermione was keenly aware as she traipsed along, coffee mug in hand, that the Black Forest was not a mere walk in the park. In fact, she would compare her situation to attempting to walk through the Forbidden Forest armed with merely a Starbucks.

The Black Forest was an infamously strange place; it was the birthplace of many muggle fairy tales and, as a consequence, the source of many superstitions in muggle culture – or whichever came first. The truth, she found out in one of her studies, was that underneath the forest floor lay a tangled knot of intersecting ley lines that were exacerbated by a well of telluric energy. This meant that the forest itself was soaked in magic. It seeped from every pore and vein, covering the land and all those who lived within it. It also meant that while the forest was a safe haven for all manner of magical creatures, it was not home to an abundance of muggle wildlife. What with them being much lower on the food chain than magical creatures. And so walking through the forest was quite an unnerving exercise; the charming features of nature walks that one would expect, such as the melodic bird song, the patter of deer through the trees, the twitching noses of badgers in the undergrowth were nearly never the case. If the hiker heard a rustle in the undergrowth, it was most likely to be a curious wood nymph; melodic bird song was to be treated as a caution that the hiker had strayed too close to a harpy’s nest; and if the hiker should hear footfalls, then they should weigh the option of running against hiding, for the Black Forest was known to be home to large and active native werewolf, vampire, and centaur communes, and thus the hiker had most likely wandered into hunting territory.

When Hermione had arrived at the German Ministry sometime around three, she had been immediately pulled into meeting after meeting with departments that she couldn’t care to remember. The meetings weren’t of any consequence to her purpose for being there and were merely a political exercise in bureaucracy (read: governmental dick-measuring contest). And so Hermione had shaken hands and spun a spiel of research and fact-checking on behalf of the Interdepartmental-Interdisciplinary-Mulitconglomerate-Organisational-Offices.

Or Iimoo for short.

Could she have chosen literally any other department rather than making one up? Yes. Did she want to? No. She had reasoned that if she were to be made to witness a nauseating display of bureaucratic peacocking for five hours, then the least she could do was force grown men, who carried themselves with a self-congratulatory air to pronounce ‘ee-moo’ whilst trying to maintain gravitas in front of their peers.

She was confident that no-one would go looking for IIMOO, but if they did, she would be the first to freely admit she had misjudged their integrity.

Needless to say, when they had offered to walk her out to the reserve where Bill was, she had hastily declined, citing some legislative bollocks with far too many words and absolutely zero substance - and that was one-hundred per cent purely fabricated.

Again, she had watched them concur with enthusiasm and, of course, absolute knowledge of legislation that she had just made up five minutes prior.

Once on the trail, she had pulled out her compass. It was a neat piece of magic that had been found in a shipwreck off the coast of Haiti at the beginning of the seventies. Unfortunately, the researchers who had found the wreck found a large cash of wealth and were robbed at gunpoint on their way back to the mainland. Inside job, was the official word. After that, one of the thieves had gotten wise to the compass and had gone on a spree of bank robberies, jewellery heists and shipwreck plunders. He and his crew had managed to amass a wealth of billions in stolen diamonds, gold and art, completely saturating the muggle and magical black market with their stolen goods. The Dow-Jones stock market value of diamonds had subsequently crashed dramatically, causing a global economic downturn in the jewellery industry because of societal panic buying that was only now just showing signs of recovery. Then, according to the report, the crew had begun to turn on one another, ending in a gruesome massacre fuelled by magic-enraged jealousy and greed. Thus the curse of the compass. It had taken the DoM many years to finally figure out the delicate web of Hoodoo magic that was wrapped around it. The bearer could ask any question like: ‘where is Bill Weasley’ for example, and the compass would point them in the direction. However, if the taint of jealousy over coveted wealth contaminated the Hoodoo web, it would exacerbate the negative emotion until all within its area of effect were enraged beyond reason and killed, leaving the compass to pass to a new owner who did not covet riches. The compass had been named ‘Charlotte’s Web’ and archived before Hermione stumbled across it one day and taken ownership of it for the express purpose of finding her way through the Timor Tunnels.

Another grey area of the DoM’s legality – wilful possession of questionably cursed items.

Not that Hermione was keeping track.

She paused by a creek, pulling the compass from her pocket to check she was still headed in the right direction whilst draining the last of her coffee. Her head felt fuzzy; despite the obscene amount of caffeine she had consumed since leaving the DoM, the combination of the lack of sleep on a full twenty-four hours and her constant restless thoughts had started to take its toll. Hermione tipped her head back and breathed deeply; the gentle breeze brushed a few wayward curls across her cheeks. Besides the bubble of the creek next to her and the hush of the wind that danced threw the leaves, the forest was quiet.

The puzzle of Raine’s sudden change in demeanour during the conversation they’d had several hours prior, was troubling her. While on one hand, Hermione was accustomed to his erratic behaviour, he had one minute been light and welcoming, the next dower and sinister. There was something about the whole Malfoy situation that had set him off.

And Malfoy…

Hermione hissed a breath between clenched teeth into the swirling breeze. She didn’t know where to begin organising her thoughts and feelings on that case (read: fucking nightmare).

Professionally - because it was her job, he was a case – something didn’t feel right about the whole creature inheritance. Morin had done an initial enquiry into the peculiar nature of his full inheritance but had only gotten preliminary answers. Yes, it was rare for a full-creature inheritance to happen so many generations after the entrance of a full-blooded creature into the lineage. So rare infact, that the data that was missing from Morin’s enquiry was the last recorded instance of when this had last happened; which meant some poor archivist was down in the bowels of the ministry, digging through dusty records, still trying to find it.

Twenty-four hours on, Hermione wasn’t hopeful it would ever be found.

Nor the archivist for that matter.

But something nagged in the back of Hermione’s mind, like a forgotten word on the tip of her tongue. She kept summoning the image of a small, leather-bound book, not an uncommon feature in her life, but the drawings it had held within it were. She remembered they had been elaborate, beautiful, with intricate detailing and vibrate colours. She had passed over it, in search of something else, but had made a note to return to it when she’d had the chance. Which she never did. She’d found it toward the end of her sixth year and had forgotten about it till now…

But the matter of a random full-creature inheritance was something that would have to be investigated. Was the cause environmental? Had the stress of the last few years triggered it? Or was there something more at play?

Hermione huffed and knelt down by the creek. She tugged the lid from her coffee cup and swilled it in the cold, clear water.

Then there was the personal issue.

Sure, she had argued with Harry to Kingsley about his original sentence, citing that he’d had no choice, that he was a victim of circumstance as much as the rest of them. But in the quiet of the night, when she awoke drenched in sweat from yet another nightmare, a small part of her calmed at the knowledge that most, if not all, of the monsters were either behind bars or dead.

The cup slipped from her hands and immediately got swept into the fast flow of the water, only to come to a short stop when it snared on a rock. Hermione shifted to her knees and reached for it with trembling fingers. She hooked it into her grasp and sat back on her haunches. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to try and calm her suddenly racing heart.

No, Malfoy was a whole other beast – literally and figuratively speaking. Even before the horrors of the war, he had bullied her for years. He had needled at her insecurities, made her feel unwelcome in a world where she had finally thought she’d fit in. Just because of her blood. To be reduced to an inherent quality of her person was a dehumanising experience. Hermione had learnt before she was barely an adolescent, the innocence of childhood still rounding her eyes, that no matter what she achieved or how she behaved, her value as a living being in this world was reduced to the perceived quality of her blood.

Malfoy had taught her that.

In spite of him, Hermione had taught herself to fight. Fight with a sharp tongue, a clenched fist and a twisted wand. She’d learnt to have thick skin and dry eyes.

Hermione learnt to keep placing one foot in front of the other. To keep moving. Because the alternative was, in those early years, that Malfoy would win and in the latter –Voldemort.

Logically, she still stood by her stance that she’d argued with Harry that day. Malfoy didn’t deserve to be imprisoned for his actions in the war. But if the argument had been about whether or not Malfoy deserved to be punished for all the grief he had caused her over the decade…

Hermione didn’t trust her answer to that.

She opened her eyes. The canopy above swayed gently in the breeze. With calmer breath, she leant forward and filled her cup with water from the creek.

The crux of Hermione’s issue was that though there were a million and one reasons for her to walk away from the case, leave him to be someone else’s problem, she felt responsible for him, _and isn’t that just fucked up,_ she mentally chided herself. She shucked her wand from her sleeve and performed the slow flick at the clear water in the cup.

“Incipere Finestera,” she breathed.

Slowly, a small image of Malfoy’s cell appeared across the water. She could make out a stream of harsh light beaming through the window and an empty bed, completely void of blankets and Malfoy. She concentrated on the miniaturised corners of the room where the shadows collected. After a moment, she saw movement in the darkened corner to the left of the door, opposite the window, and suddenly a long leg stretched into the light. Hermione couldn’t make out the rest of him.

But his leg seemed healthy enough, she supposed.

_He’s probably sulking. God forbid a Malfoy be anything less tha – well, shit..._

The political connotations of his inheritance hadn’t occurred to her before that moment. Was he still a pureblood? Were the Malfoy’s no longer part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?

_Did you know that you had Veela blood when I was tortured on your floor for the mud in mine?_

Hermione took another deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool clean air, smothering the indignant fire that had plumed in her chest.

Malfoy was still in one piece. She was doing her job.

Without cancelling the spell, she placed the lid back atop the cup. Assured of its security, she made to stand when she caught an unexpected sight from the corner of her eye.

From her still seated position by the banks of the creek, Hermione snapped her head up and met an observant pair of golden eyes staring back at her from the other side. Sat opposite her was a large white fox. _At least I think it’s a fox._ The creature was roughly five-foot-tall sitting down, making it far larger than any fox she knew of existing. It was more akin to a wolf in size – _larger even? -_ but its narrow pinched face, slanted eyes, tufted tipped ears and the bushy tail that wrapped around its front paws held a distinctly vulpine quality. She had no idea how long it had been sat there; she hadn’t heard any sounds of its arrival.

Hermione didn’t move, unsure of the best course of action. It didn’t seem to be aggressive; had it wanted to attack her, it could’ve done that when she had been distracted with the cup (read: griping about fucking Malfoy, of all things). With her wand gripped tight, Hermione slowly made to stand, her sight set on the watching fox. _It must be a magical creature; foxes aren’t naturally this large… or brave._ Stood to her full height, she noticed she was only a bit taller than the creature. Wand and cup clasped in each hand, Hermione weighed her options. The fox was sat directly on the trail she had been following to get to Bill. She supposed she could travel down the creek in an attempt to skirt around the fox, but she didn’t particularly fancy the idea of going off the path. Not in these trees. Not when there already was a creature in her sights.

The fox rose, shivered out its tail and stretched out its long front legs, spreading its clawed paws, before turning to head down the trail in the direction that Hermione intended to go. She hesitated and thought that if she waited a few minutes more for the fox to get far enough ahead, then maybe it wouldn’t think she was a threat and attack her.

She was just about to take a seat to wait again when she saw the fox stop a couple of yards down the trail and look back at her over its shoulder. It didn’t move except for a twitch of its nose, its eyes locked on to her with an expectant air about them. 

_Does it want me to follow?_

Confused, Hermione took a small step toward the creek, her eyes never leaving the fox.

Its ear twitched to face the direction of the trail ahead but its gaze remained fastened to Hermione.

She took another step forward, her toes on the very edge of the water.

Still no reaction.

Hermione took the step over the creek, wary of any movement the fox could make.

When both feet were securely on the other side, the fox flicked its tail and turned back to continue its relaxed amble down the trail.

Hermione cautiously followed behind.

The foxed padded silently along the path, its sleek white fur shone like a ghost moving noiselessly between the trees. It wasn’t at all bothered by Hermione’s presence and the longer that she followed, the more she became convinced that the fox didn’t intend to harm her. _Could be leading me to a lair to ea-_ She shook herself as she withdrew the compass from her pocket; she breathed a sigh of relief when she realised, intentionally or not, that the fox was taking her in the right direction. That being said, Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what she would have done, had they not been. She didn’t fancy trying to get away from the fox; it seemed rather intent on her following, and there was no way she would be able to outrun it.

After a while, Hermione removed the lid from the cup again and peered inside. Malfoy had moved from the corner to sit on the edge of the bed. He seemed to be stretching out his arms across his chest and massaging his shoulders. The image was too small to make out his face but she assumed from his actions he was trying to ease tension or pain. She made a mental note to follow up on the issue, to check whether it was a result from the whatever had caused his injures during his presentation or whether this was a symptom of more to come.

The image on the water got darker and harder to read suddenly, as if someone switched off the lights. Hermione looked up and was surprised to see that the forest had grown significantly darker around her. She stopped and glanced behind her on the trail and saw the threshold of darkness she had crossed, where light met shade. Instead of the towering trees that danced in the wind and flirted with the sun, the canopy above her head was clawing and close. Gnarled branched laced with weaving vines hung down and trailed their leaves onto the mossy floor. Hermione looked ahead of her to where the ghostly outline of the fox sat patiently on the path, its head turned toward her, its golden eyes luminescent in the gloom. She bit her lip and bounced her wand on her finger, as the familiar thrum of adrenaline began to course through her veins. She looked back toward the line of light.

Decision made, she placed the lid securely back on to the cup and toed the increasingly slippery mossy path to where the fox sat waiting. As she grew closer, the fox stood gracefully and continued its journey, with Hermione following in its wake.

The forest seemed to grow thicker, its branches closing in on her. More than once, her hair became twisted in a crooked hand of twigs. Each time, the fox would wait quietly while she detached herself from a tree, before setting off again. And for the first time, Hermione heard signs of life in the forest.

Not that that was comforting in the slightest.

A soft wail filled the air every so often and each time, the fox’s ears would twitch to pin-point its directions. It was off to the right.

An ominous clicking, in a pattern that reminded Hermione of Morse code, became a constant soundtrack that she eventually tuned out.

Occasionally, a twig or branch would snap from above her head, meaning that every ten minutes or so, Hermione would have to brush fallen leaves and debris from her clothes and hair.

But most unsettling of all were the eyes. At first, she didn’t realise what she had been unconsciously staring at. She had been walking along, trying to work out what was wailing in the distance, not really focusing on what her eyes were looking at. Then suddenly it clicked when the white glowing orbs blinked. She stopped in her tracks, her heart rate skyrocketing. But the eyes had just continued to stare. And so Hermione had continued along the path, deeper into the woods, following the phantom-like fox. Except the one became many. They trailed beside her, peered through trees ahead of her, blinked from the canopy above her and the brush beneath her. She could count at least twenty, though she was sure it was probably more.

She clasped the cup tighter to her chest.

The fox sat down on the path ahead of her. Hermione stopped in her tracks.

Everything else halted their movement too.

She brushed some fallen twigs from her hair.

The fox didn’t seem perturbed; it was just sat calmly looking ahead. Hermione carefully picked her way forward, her grip tightening on her wand.

The sound of movement reached her ears again, as the caravan of creatures followed her.

Hermione reached the fox. Its ear twitched in her direction while it remained looking ahead.

The trail that they had been following opened up into a clearing that rose in the centre to form some sort of mound under the low canopy. The area was lit by glowing orbs that illuminated a network of small streams that ran like veins across the foot of the mound.

Just then, a head appeared at the top of the rise.

“Oh thank Godric,” Hermione exclaimed breathily, her body immediately deflating from tension. At the sound, Bill’s head whisked around, his face contorting as he peered down at her.

“Hermione?” His gravelly voice carried across the clearing as he started to make his way down to meet her. She waved an arm in greeting. He slowed his walk the closer he got until he stopped a fair distance away.

“You’ve uh… got a friend?” He said cautiously, his brow knitted as he glanced between Hermione and the fox she stood next too.

“A few, I think,” she said looking over her shoulder down the trail she had just come from. “Well… I hope.”

Several eyes blinked back.

She turned back to Bill who was deliberately placing each step with care as he resumed his approach, his eyes locked on the fox beside her.

“How did you find me?” He said in a low voice.

Hermione looked over to the fox. “I was on my way anyway. I think this one just decided to lead me here.” The fox’s ear twitched as the sound of the wail in the distance filled the air again, but otherwise, continued to sit stoically still. “You know what it is?” She asked.

“I think I do. And if I’m right, it’s doesn’t fill me with hope considering why I’m here, though, this one seems...” His voice trailed off as he stopped within arm’s reach. He slowly raised his hand and held it aloft in front of the fox’s nose. Nobody moved. Then just as slowly as Bill had been, the fox touched its nose to his palm. A beaming smile spread across Bill’s face, his eyes lit with pure unadulterated joy.

“Sometimes, I fucking love my job,” he laughed breezily. He turned to Hermione, “you best come and see then.” And with that, he turned on his heel and made his way back towards the mound. Hermione hesitated before she made to follow him and eyed the fox next to her. She too, slowly raised her arm, mirroring Bill’s actions. Before she’d finished, the fox brushed its nose across the back of her hand and flipped it up onto its snout. Hermione smiled and gently brushed her fingers over the soft fur of its head.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Its golden eyes twinkled with warmth. She dropped her hand and with a final smile at the blinking eyes in the trees, she hurried to catch up with Bill.

“Do you know what they are?” Hermione said as she crested the top of the embankment and stood next to Bill, who was waiting for her.

“Not for certain, no. But all things considered, I have a best guess.” He offered a shrug, looking out over the clearing to where the fox still sat.

“Which is?”

“I think it’s a Kitsune, don’t know if there’s a German name for them. Maybe - judging by the fact that it brought you here unharmed - maybe it’s a Zenko Kitsune, but you can’t really tell until it’s too late and that’s as far as my knowledge goes.” Bill said, a look of deep thought coming over his face.

“I thought they were Japanese mythological creatures,” Hermione whispered, her eyes widening in wonder as she focused on the ghostly silhouette.

“Well everything’s got a grain of truth to it, every story’s gotta start from somewhere.” He swiped his thumb across his jaw and scratched his cheek, “And they’re spirits, not creatures, I think. Like Banshees. I was workin’ a job in Kasama a few years ago. Strange curse was makin’ all the young ones sick. Turns out, there was an Inari Shrine that was near the spring that was the city’s water supply. I couldn’t figure out what the source of the curse was, never seen anything like it. Haven’t since either. The folk I was stayin’ with, kept sayin’ it was because an exorcism had been done there a few months back. Nasty one too, from what they described. Well it changed everythin’ you see. Curses are static aren’t they. This was organic, kept changin’ like it was playin’ with me.” He tugged up his sleeves and crossed his arms across his chest, his faces darkening as he spoke. “The more I tried, the sicker the young ones got. I was out of ideas. Then this Kannushi who was passin’ through, heard about what was happenin’, and one day I’m up there at the Shrine, wrackin’ my brain for what to do. Next thing I know this bloke pops up.” He chuckled. “Old bloke called Gō. Anyway, he goes up to the shrine and before I can stop him, he starts talkin’ to it, all casual as if chattin’ to a friend.” His gaze grew piercing as it continued to focus on the fox in the distance. “Next thing I know, fuckin’ chaos, everywhere.” He swallowed heavily and twisted his head as if to relieve a crack in his neck. “In the middle of it all was this bloody fox, just like that one over there.” He pointed with his chin. “Different colour, but same size y’know.” His voice faded off as his eyes glazed over, his focus still on the fox.

“What happened?” Hermione asked quietly.

Bill drew a breath. “Well it was rough goin’ for a bit, but we managed to get it sorted. Gō took me for dinner after - you can imagine I had questions.” His lips hitched a small smile. “He was very patient. Nogitsune, he called it. You get lots of different types of them, Kitsune that is. But the two main families are Zenko and Yako. Zenko are predominantly good and Yako tend to ruin your day, _but_ ,” he looked over at her with an arched brow, “they can also choose to accompany a lone female through a forest. Depends on their mood. Nogitsune are Yako. That one at the shrine decided to kill all the young ones in the town because the town folk didn’t allow it to have one. So you know…” he finished with a tilt of his head.

Hermione’s brows raised in consideration as she looked over at the fox. “But you seemed so happy when it touched your hand.” She said quietly.

Bill’s broad shoulders shifted under his grey shirt. “Well yeah. Fifty per cent chance it might fuck your life up but it’s still bloody cool. Look at it!” He said with a grin.

Hermione laughed, “you are so much like your brother sometimes.”

“Hey! I’m the elder, Charlie stole it from me.” He said, levelling at pointed finger at her as a grin spread across his face.

“Whatever you say,” she chuckled.

“Seriously though,” he said, sobering, “as much as it is lovely to see you Hermione, why are you here?”

Hermione looked over to see his face drawn in concern. “You sent a request to the Ministry,” she shrugged lamely. “Here I am, someone else will probably be along later.”

Bill’s face cleared in realisation for a moment, before tightening again. “What department you here for?”

“Research division. We’ve got our fingers in lots of pies and help out wherever we can.” She offered him a placating smile. “Everyone’s got a lot on at the moment and we’re the Jack-of-all-trades, so we tend to be a front line before a specialist is sent in.”

Bill held her in a cold assessing look that made her feel keenly like she was back in Hogwarts, stood in front of a Professor.

She tried not to fidget.

Bill grunted his ascension as his arms unfolded from across his chest. Hermione went to take a sip from the cup she still held in her hand to wet her dry throat, then quickly thought better of it. Though it would be fine, something felt deeply wrong about drinking water that carried Malfoy’s visage.

“Earlier you said that you weren’t hopeful to see a Kitsune considering why you’re here. Why is that?” Hermione asked politely in an attempt to draw attention away from the topic of her presence.

Bill’s brow furrowed in consternation. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

With a final glance at the fox, he spun on his heel and made his way toward the centre of the mound. Hermione followed behind. As they approached the middle, a hole in the floor came into view from where it had been obscured by, what seemed to be, a strategically placed nodule in the ground. Bill rounded the gap and began the descent into the hole. When Hermione came to the lip, she could make out crude steep steps, carved into the earth, disappearing into the blackness below.

Hermione placed the coffee cup she carried on the side of the entrance and began to pick her way down the stairs. Her free hand trailed her fingers across the damp stone wall in an attempt to provide her with some semblance of balance, while the other held her wand aloft, dousing the area in light from a worldlessly cast ‘Lumos’.

The stairs seemed to go on forever; the air around Hermione became simultaneously stale to taste upon her tongue and filled with a rich scent of ozone and earth. Finally, her foot landed on a stone floor and Bill stood just in a-way, at the entrance of a passage.

“Alright?” He questioned softly. Hermione nodded, opting not to disturb the oppressive atmosphere surrounding them that felt alive with energy, yet dead to the senses. Bill bowed his head as he turned, in an attempt to fit his tall frame through the narrow passage. Hermione followed behind.

The walls were carved jaggedly from rock, as if the passage was only ever intended for the express purpose of travel and not for presentation. A layer of perspiration clung to the walls, making them gleam and shimmer in the witchlight as they passed.

The pair travelled deeper into what Hermione could only assume, was way under the surface of the clearing. Roots and moss had begun to line walls; small trickles of water gave the illusion that they were moving as it streamed down the walls to the floor and drained away.

Eventually, Bill lowered himself down a step and turned to offer Hermione a hand. Once stable on her feet, she looked around her and was met with a wall of darkness beyond the reach of her witchlight. From the air, she could tell she was in a bigger room.

“Lumos Maxima,” she muttered. Her wand blazed and illuminated a cathedral-sized cavern, full of stalagmites and stalactites. The pair were stood on a crag of rock that then steeply dropped into a maze of jagged layers that formed a hellish path into the depths of the basin.

“Careful does it now,” Bill breathed, lowering himself to the edge and dropping down. He turned to help Hermione. They repeated the arduous process, delicately picking their path across the aggressive terrain, following a direction only known to Bill.

Finally, they reached the bottom and Hermione found herself in a circular depression, surrounded by rising rocks on all sides; like an elemental amphitheatre. Soft sand shifted beneath Hermione’s feet as she wiped her scuffed palms against her legs. She thanked her fortuitous fashion choice the day before when she’d opted to wear loose-fitting suit trousers, sneakers and crew neck jumper rather than the whole slew of robes and finery. A small distance from her was a raised concrete path in the sand. As she grew closer to it, she could see the remnants of intricate carvings depicting winding swirls and crude faces, the sharp edges of the etchings worn smooth with time. She opened her mouth as she looked over her shoulder to ask Bill a question, only to be met with empty space. She whipped her head back and forth trying to place him.

A chuckle came from further down the path. “This way,” he said, his voice light with amusement.

Hermione huffed as she hoisted herself on to the path.

“What is all of this?” She asked, falling into step once more.

Bill glanced back at her briefly before resuming his careful march forward, his glowing wand above his head lighting the way.

“Did you notice how the forest changed the closer you got to here?” He intoned distractedly, his eyes casting about ahead of him as if searching for something.

Hermione hummed. “It became dark suddenly. More…” She struggled to find a word to describe it. “Alive, but not in a good way.”

“Yeah I noticed that too. The Magizoologists and herbologists who work in this forest noticed things not quite addin’ up a few months ago. At first it they thought nothin’ of it, chalked it up to climate change. Careful here.”

He took a long step forward. The light from Hermione’s wand caught on a snag in the path. She skipped over the gap and resumed her pace.

“The initial reports have it that certain plants were bloomin’ out of season and ones that were meant to be thrivin’ were dyin’ a rotted death.”

Ahead, Hermione could see a gap in the rock walls that the path cut through; Bill ducked through the space and continued deeper into the cave.

“Then over time,” his voice strained with effort as he hopped up a large step in the path. “Over time, they started noticin’ somethin’ else strange. The creatures that are traditionally marked as being light magic started to grow sick and die-”

“Like a plague?” Hermione thought out-loud.

“Yeah, I suppose. But the weird thing was that the dark magic creatures were fine… at least for a while. And so were the researchers. When the forest started to change into what you saw out there, the dark creatures started dyin’ too. The researchers are still fine. But even that isn’t the weirdest part of all. The researchers finally contacted the curse-breaker departments when inferi started poppin’ up.”

“What?!” Hermione snapped. “Someone’s making inferi?!”

“Yes and no, we think. There’s a couple of other curse-breakers about workin’ on this too. Italy, Tunisia, France, Sweden and obviously Germany. The researchers obviously contacted their respective ministries.” He explained. “Anyway, the inferi seem to be the creatures who have died from whatever the fuck is goin’ on here. Havin’ witnessed the process happen a couple of times now, it seems to just happen. No wand wavin’ or enchantments. So no, someone isn’t makin’ them.”

“But-”

“But,” Bill interrupted calmly, “there’s a runnin’ theory that it’s the forest that’s makin’ them sick. Ergo, the forest is makin’ inferi.” He shook his head. “It’s the best we’ve got at the minute. And it tracks…sort’a”. He swiped his free hand over his face, pushing some stray hairs away. “But again, we couldn’t find a curse per se – still haven’t. It’s was just this sickness and dark magic. So we contacted the centaur communes because you know, them being all hypersensitive to that sort of shit. And get this,” he looked back at her, still walking forward, his face alive with excitement. “They keep goin’ on about this imbalance right, sayin’ that somethin’ was taken from the forest. Course they wouldn’t tell us what. So between scourin’ the forest and askin’ the right questions, we managed to get from the vampires that the forest had become particularly dark at night. Now at first, we thought it was y’know,” he waved he free hand around, “more of this stuff. But then one of the young centaurs said that they missed the little flames.” He threw a pointed look over his shoulder at her.

“Little flames?” Hermione repeated.

“Yeah, I know right. So we went back to the researchers, yada yada, asked more questions,” his gestures became more exaggerated as the look of excitement on his face intensified. “Over the years, a few of them had put in their reports of seein' ghostly lights at night. But they hadn’t seen any for a while. They chalked it up to Hinkypunks. Anyway, we spoke to the muggles who live in the towns around here, and you’ll never guess what they called them,” he stopped walking suddenly and Hermione managed to catch herself before she walked into the back of him.

“No idea,” she said, her mouth twitching to mirror the infectious smile that was on his face.

“Irrlicht,” he said with finality.

Hermione nibbled her lip.

Bill looked at her so expectantly.

“So…my German isn’t great,” she edged.

Bill scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Will-o-the-wisp!” He all but shouted, his voice bouncing off of the confined walls of the passage, magnifying the cry tenfold, until the echoes finally died several moments later.

Hermione thought for a moment, processing the information that Bill had given her. In the distance, she could hear the sound of running water.

“But I thought Hinkypunks were what muggle thought were Will-o’the-wisps?” Hermione asked.

“Gabriel said that too, he’s the French Curse-breaker. We went back to the Centaurs and met Linan who then proceeded to catch a Hinkypunk, and then went on a very impassioned rant about how it was not an Irrlicht. They’re two very different things apparently..." He paused considering, "one’s a creature for a start.”

Hermione had too many questions. Bill was telling her things that went against the knowledge she trusted. Were the DoM already aware of this? Sure, her part of her training had been to accept that absolute truth is only the truth until it is proved otherwise, but it still took the floor from beneath her feet when she experienced it.

“So if I’m following this right, are you saying that all of the Will-o-the-wisps have disappeared?” Hermione said tentatively, Bill nodded eagerly. “And you think that has something to do with the forest making the inferi?”

“Ah well, that part’s a stretch. I think the inferi are a by-product. What kills inferi?”

“Fire…” Hermione answered.

“Exactly, and without the naturally occurrin’ fire around, maybe… I don’t know. Like I said, we haven’t quite figured that part out. It’s all a workin’ theory.” He turned to continue down the path.

“Okay, I think I’m with you so far, but that doesn’t explain why we’re down here,” Hermione called as she hurried to keep up with him.

“Linan said that the more the sickness went on, the more he could feel where the gap was. He brought us to the clearin’ up there. Only took a bit of snoopin’ and we found this place. Nobody knew anythin’ about it. Except for, apparently the Kitsune.” He added as an afterthought.

“Oh yeah, how does that factor into all of this?” Hermione asked, slipping slightly on the increasingly mossy stone beneath her.

“Well among being known as tricksters an’ all, they’re also believed to be guardians of the elements.” He said as he lowered himself down another a deep step, again turning back to help Hermione.

They had finally reached the end of the path.

Hermione strengthened her Lumos and gasped at the room beyond. The ceiling was towering, disappearing well beyond the reach of her light. Seemingly from a void, streams of waterfalls fell a random interval around the circumference of the eden-like cavern. The platform that she and Bill stood on, descended to the left with mossy steps that wrapped around like a coiled snake. She could see the glitter of water over mossy rocks far down below her. Ahead in the centre of the room, the ground rose in a grassy incline, and hidden at the very top was a set of ruins.

“Watch your step, it’s particularly slippery down here,” Bill said as he began the descent down yet more stairs. Hermione carefully picked her way, only losing her footing once. When she reached the bottom, her sneakered feet splashed lightly as she stepped off the stairs into the shallow waters that covered the floor. Bill had already begun to make his way across the open space toward the fixture in the centre. Hermione watched closely where she placed her feet as she crossed the waters, cautious of putting too much weight on an unstable stone.

When she got to the other side, she reached for Bill’s outstretched calloused hand and he guided her up a particularly craggy incline, and safely onto the embankment. He caught her eye and raised an eyebrow in question, checking she was alright. Hermione nodded and gestured to proceed. Her thoughts were a mess. The forest was dying from a sickness? The magic tainted? Hinkypunk and will-o’-the-wisps? Inferi?!

She shook her head, her brows furrowed as she trod carefully up the incline behind Bill’s loping gait. Inferi were made. Resurrected husks. Soulless animated bodies. The product of the evilest of magic. Yet, Bill had claimed he’d seen a couple animate before his eyes without the correct spell. Without any spell! _Surely not, because if that were the case then…_

“How confident are you that someone isn’t creating the inferi?” She asked as she hoisted herself up a particularly steep part.

“Hundred per cent. Well… ninety-nine. No-one was there either time. One minute they were dead, the next, the body was movin’ again. It just happened,” he finished with a shrug. 

Hermione frowned. “But that’s not possible, inferi aren’t naturally occurring at all. There has to be…something!”

“There is somethin’,” Bill replied.

“What?”

“I dunno.”

Hermione huffed.

“Look, I’m workin’ on it, but that’s one of the many reasons why I asked for back-up researchers. Look at this.” He said, pointing to the collection of ruins at the very top of the rise.

As Hermione approached, she saw shards of white stone scattered around the area. Larger bits were collected around the remains of the pillars that were arranged in a semi-circle around a plinth that held all manner of occult items. She knelt and examined the pillar closest to her. She ran her finger gently over the darkened shadow that lined each of the broken edges of the perfect white stone. Black soot rubbed onto her fingertips, perfuming the air faintly with a tinge of burnt. Stepping around the area, each of the pillars held similar scorched marks that still held the scent of their burn. _Recent._ Hermione waved her wand over the plinth from afar and caught clear signs of two magical traces: one human, the other distinctly not. _Could be a creature or spirit_ , she amended. As she stepped closer to the plinth, she saw numerous candles, their wax melted all the way down to dribble onto the surface. Several herbs: _sage, mint, belladonna, mandrake._ Her eyes scoured the surface - _branch of dried yew, wormwood._ Centre stage was a large skull, ( _bear?)_ filled with a dark liquid. She lowered the tip of her wand and was able to make out the irony scent before her eyes caught on the burnished stain the liquid had left on the side of the skull. Tentatively, she touched a fingertip to the surface and rubbed it between her thumb, feeling a tacky, thick viscosity – _blood._

“It’s old, but not too old,” she commented absent-mindedly.

“A couple of months old maybe, say four?” Bill’s voice commented from somewhere behind her.

“Yeah mayb – wait why four?” She said sharply, scourgifying the mess from her fingers.

“Because that’s when the first change is noted in a report,” Bill said in a shrug. “What do you reckon all this is?” He said stepping up beside her, looking down at the plinth with a darkened expression.

“A summoning,” she replied with confidence.

Bill hummed and stuffed a hand into his pocket. “I thought that too, but this has the others questioning it, which is why we need a second opinion.” He gestured to the wormwood, belladonna and the skull. “It’s human by the way.”

“What is?” Hermione said distractedly as she examined the objects on the plinth, trying to see them from a different perspective.

“The blood.”

Hermione started and looked down at the skull, horror slowly tipping down her spine. “Blood magic then,” she said swallowing thickly.

“Hence why the others disagree,” Bill said.

The yew, sage, mint and mandrake were a group. _That’s the summoning._

The wormwood and the belladonna were a pair.

But the skull and the blood…

“A three-fold action?” Hermione said quietly.

“Go on…”

“This is the summoning,” she said pointing to the first group. “These,” she said, pointing to the second pair, “are usually used to sever a bond. And these,” she gestured with an open palm to the skull, “these are usually used to bind something to a person. Whoever’s blood this is.” She stepped away from the plinth and examine the entire scene, the destroyed pillars and all. “You put it all together, whatever this place, someone knew to come here to find something. They also assumed that it would be bound to this place - this altar maybe. So they summoned it, severed the bond that kept it here, transferred it to a human, and walked it out.” She paused, her eyes darting back to the pillars. “It didn’t go quietly. There would’ve been a moment between severing the bond and forging a new one where whatever it was, would have fought back.” She pointed to the destroyed pillars. “That’s my best guess. Depends on – what is it?” Hermione abruptly stopped her theorising at the sight of shock on Bill’s face.

He cleared his throat gruffly and swiped a hand across his jaw. “I was afraid you were goin’ to come to this conclusion. When Linan brought us to the clearin’ originally, he said this was hallowed grounds. He uh… he said that this place was called the Temple of Ignis. Course, he didn’t know this was here, he thought that it was the clearin’ but…”

A sense of dread settled heavily in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. “Ignis as in fire?”

“The very same,” Bill croaked.

“Four months ago when all the Will-o’-the-wisps disappeared and the forest began to grow dark and sick?” Hermione asked. Bill nodded, swallowing heavily.

Hermione took a deep breath, the sound of the crashing waterfalls that echoed from the cavern walls seemed to get louder.

“So I was led here by a Kitsune, a guardian of elements, to you, to the Temple of Ignis, in a forest that is dying and reanimating corpses and all of the wisps have disappeared?” Hermione surmised.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to be right,” he agreed quietly.

“And we’re stood in, what we can assume to be the actual Temple of Ignis, across from a summoning table. And there are no more wisps.”

Bill blew out a breath, his shoulders slumping heavily.

“So, if all you’ve said is true and correct, we can infer that someone’s summoned the fire of the Will-o’-the-wisp, attached it to a body and walked it out of the forest?”

Bill nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose, his wand hand tucked onto his hip.

“What does that mean for the forest?” Hermione asked solemnly. The gravity of the situation bearing down on her shoulders like an impossible weight.

“I don’t know Hermione,” Bill replied in kind, his sad eyes turned to meet hers. “But somehow we’ve got to figure out a way to keep the forest alive until we can get the wisp back.”

*

**_Sometime around mid-afternoon, 9 th of September, 1999 – Azkaban Prison, North Sea_ **

****

There was a bug.

A beetle.

It had wings, that much Draco was certain of. And four… _six feet?_ He focused his hearing: the crush of the waves hitting the treacherous stones below faded into the background; he pushed aside the ambient murmurs of those having enlightening conversations with themselves in the cells around him; the heavy footsteps of the guards in the corridors.

**Tap-tap…tap…tap.**

_Fou-_ **tap-tap** _six!_

_Insects don’t have four feet._ He strained his hearing again, trying to pinpoint its direction. **Tap-tap.**

He launched himself from his bed pallet to the windowed wall and pressed his ear to the cold stone.

**Tap-tap.** Draco felt the faint vibrations in the stone through his fingertips where they lay gently against the wall. He slid closer toward the window, this head still to the wall and waited. **Tap-tap t-** He leant back and craned his neck up as far as he could to try and get a view of the window ledge. He was sure that that was where the beetle was.

Very soon after Draco’s arrival at Azkaban, he had worked out one evening that the window was roughly sixteen feet and seven inches from the floor…give or take a few centimetres. So even if Draco stood on the chair and stretched his arms, he knew that there would be roughly a gap measurable to the height of his six foot four body still left to scale.

Though he had been in possession of this knowledge this for, near enough, the entirety of his sentence, it didn’t detract from his steadfast belief that if he just leaned a little further back, he would be able to see the beetle that had been tap dancing on his awareness and overtaking his attention since the sun had crested the midday point of the sky.

The alternative was that he allowed his thoughts to spiral down the rabbit hole of the unending questions he had about the fact that he was Veela. He knew that therein that direction lay the trap of madness. He couldn’t get any answers. Not here. And if he allowed himself to tip his toe into that thought minefield for just one second, his preoccupation became entirely consumed with the knowledge that his back and shoulders were on fire and there was a hollow, yearning emptiness in his chest that he refused to acknowledge or name. The pain in his shoulders had gradually gotten worse since he had awoken the day previous, making it near impossible to sleep during the night. He hadn’t been able to lie down at all. The only way he had found some semblance of comfort was when he leaned his back against the walls in the corner of the cell and used the cold deadness of the stone as a balm. But even that had not been enough, come the late morning. And so distraction had been his method to maintain some sense of reality.

And then the beetle had come along. 

Draco swiped around blindly behind him until his fingers clumsily latched on to the chair. Without removing his eyes from the window, lest the beetle disappeared, he swung the chair around, positioned it before him and scrambled ontop.

As he distantly knew he would, Draco found himself six-foot too short even as he stretched his arms and pointed his fingers.

He puffed at the hair that had fallen in his feverish eyes.

**Tap-tap.**

He bit his lip in thought, his eyes scouring the wall. Suddenly, his hand shot up to his mouth as he hissed at the pain that bloomed from his lip. Pulling his hand away, he saw the scarlet that coated his fingers. Gently, he ran his tongue over his teeth. _Well fuck. Fangs. SERIOU-_

**Tap-tap, tap-ta-**

The beetle was on the move. In desperation, Draco closed his eyes and sprung from the chair in a leap of faith, his arms outstretched, searching for purchase. Suddenly he felt the cold lip under his fingertips as his hand hooked securely on the ledge. His felt stone give and crunch as he fastened to it. Draco opened his eyes, his vision obscured with the wall that was close to his face. With ease he hadn’t known he possessed, he pulled himself up so that his eyes peeked over the window ledge. His fingertip were claws once again, the black talons had gouged grooves into the stone, anchoring him in place.

**Tap-tap.** _Ah HA!_

Just beyond the bars of the window, an emerald green beetle searched the window ledge with his antennae. Draco watched fascinated, a small smile on his lips.

**Knock-knock.** Draco cocked his head in confusion at the beetle, his brows furrowed. _How-_

“Mr Malfoy?”

Draco started, releasing his hold from the window ledge. He landed silently and turned to see a guard holding the door open for a rotund bearded man who waddled into the cell. Albert Hedgley was the Malfoy family legal counsel; the Hedgley family having assumed that position for the better half of century.

Draco sighed, “Albert I apologise, I don’t know what my mother has said to you this time but-”

“Please Mr Malfoy, we don’t have time for that,” he barked. Draco started, shocked at the tone the man had taken with him. He knew Albert to be a serious man but he had always been respectful, even during his trial. _Is this because I’m a creature?_

Albert nodded to the guard, who locked the door behind him, and the bustled over the bed and began drawing wads of parchment from his briefcase.

“Take a seat, Mr Malfoy,” he said, focused on his take. Numbly, Draco did as he was told, his stiff joints creaking.

Finally, Hedgley turned, his greying bristled moustache twitching as he righted himself. Draco looked closer at the man he’d known to be so put-together his entire life. Before him, Hedgley stood with his tie was askew, his cuff-links haphazard, two spots of colour high on his rounded cheeks.

“What’s wrong? Is Mother okay? Is Father?” Draco asked, urgency rising in his voice. A creeping sense of unease taking over him at the man’s dishevelled appearance.

“Your parents are as well as they can be. I’ve contacted both of them. I don’t expect an answer from your Father immediately of course. I have yet to hear from your Mother,” he said briskly as he picked up a piece of parchment that lay atop the pile that was sprawled over his bed.

“Then what is going on?”

“It appears Mr Malfoy, that your case is up for hearing.”

Draco’s breath caught in his chest.

“But they said -”

“That you wouldn’t have a hearing until two weeks before the end of your sentence, I know.”

“So what-”

“I don’t know Mr Malfoy. I don’t know why they have decided to call it so soon.” Hedgely said wearily, taking a seat on the edge of the pallet and meeting Draco’s eyes. “What I do know, is that they’ve given us less than twenty-four hours to get you trial ready.”

Draco released the trapped air from his chest, his eyes rounding in shock.

“Tomorrow Mr Malfoy. Your hearing is tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts and theories! Till next time beauts! And once again, thank you!


	7. Eleutheromania

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie to you chickadees, I'm nervous about this one. As always feedback and constructive criticism will be appreciated. 
> 
> That being said, I'm fucking praying you enjoy it. On my knees. Praying. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine.
> 
> TRIGGERS - Substance abuse, horror, panic attacks/ anxiety attacks, threat of violence, blood/injuries, claustrophobia. If you see anymore, let me know, but these ones are a definite chickadees. Much love. 
> 
> Annavek94 has created the art in the chapter and I am just blown away. She reached into my mind and brought him to life.
> 
> Without further ado, see you on the other side!

**_“Golden child,_ **

**_Lion boy;_ **

**_Tell me what it’s like to conquer._ **

****

**_Fearless child,_ **

**_Broken boy;_ **

**_Tell me what it’s like to burn.”_ **

_\- Gallixie, Oh Darling, even Rome fell._

**Chapter 7 – Eleutheromania**

* * *

* * *

**_12:45 pm, 10 th of September, 1999 – Ministry Atrium, just left of Walding’s Coffee Cart, Ministry of Magic, London, UK. _ **

****

A woman sipped her coffee, savouring the bitter aftertaste on her tongue. Her eyes tracked over the atrium once again, _why is he always late?_ She casted a tempus charm and tutted at the time. She tapped her foot impatiently and took another sip. Caffeine had become her lifeblood over the last few months; the strain of pulling extra hours on top of her already fulltime job was finally getting to her. She was tired of organising plans, checking manifests, greasing the right palms and ensuring the right people were in the right place at the right time. Politics was hard, attempting to smoothly execute a plan of this magnitude was harder.

And they were so close. The end was in sight. Just a few more chess pieces to manoeuvre and then there would be a new dawn.

The lunchtime crowd parted in front of her and she spied the familiar gait of the man she was waiting for.

“You’re late,” she said in greeting.

He grunted an acknowledgement and fell into step beside her as they made their way toward the elevators, their fine, plum-coloured robes billowing behind as they went.

“Is everything ready?” The man murmured under his breath as they shuffled into a carriage. The woman nodded her head in reply.

Weeks.

Months.

Her particular role in the grand plan would conclude today. It had been her responsibility to ensure that today would happen at the right time. It had been someone else’s responsibility to make the necessary circumstances for it all to be possible.

Clockwork.

It had been a seamless transition, everyone doing their job perfectly and now they were nearing the end of this phase, only the home stretch would be left following this. All they had to do was make sure that the Queen was in the right place by the end of the day so that he could be removed from the board to join the two bishops they’d already secured.

They just had to get through this hurdle first.

Her nerves fluttered, her palms clammy against the folder she tightly held against her chest.

The woman and the man exited the elevator and stepped out into the black, sleek corridor.

“What room?” The man asked.

“Courtroom three,” she replied, calling him back from where he’d gone ahead. He backtracked and joined her as they turned sharply to the left and walked shoulder-to-shoulder up to a heavy black door that lay at the end of the hall.

A bespectacled clerk levelled them with an imposing glare as he peered up from the parchment he held in his hands.

“Cutting it fine, you two,” he jeered in smarmy voice, making a note of their arrival. The woman flashed him an insincere smile as she passed, while the man quietly told him where he could shove the quill.

Without a final glance, the woman and man split off to their respective ends of the room. The woman hustled along the rows of benches until she found her seat. She shuffled her folder in front of her, ensuring her reports were in order, straightened her robes and took a deep settling breath.

“This is all a bit exciting, isn’t it? Emergency hearing an’ all. Do you know what’s going on?” The plump wizard who was sat next to her asked with a warm smile.

“I haven’t got a clue,” the woman replied emotionlessly, folding her hands in her lap, her heart aflutter with apprehension as she turned to see Kingsley Shacklebolt take his seat and bang his gavel on the podium.

“Are we ready?” His rich voice questioned, examining the faces of the assembled Wizengamot. “Very well, bring in Prisoner Four Forty-Four. I hereby begin the proceedings of Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

*

**_12:59 pm, 10 th of September, 1999 – Holding room of Courtroom Three, Ministry of Magic, London UK. _ **

Draco twisted his wrist in the shackle. He stretched his jaw forward, craning his neck from side to side as far as the steel collar would allow. He nodded to the guard who watched him apprehensively, who then heaved the heavy cage door closed. Draco tried to keep his breathing slow as the long spikes that lined the inside of the cage door loomed ever closer. Finally, the door was closed and the pointed tips rested millimetres from his taut body.

**Cra-clunk.** The locking mechanisms set into motion; the lines of enchanted gears that ran along the length of the door whirred to life. Inch by inch, the cage was covered in a thick warding, encasing his metal confines in a delicate golden glittery glow that flashed bright once, before fading away.

His shoulders ached; though the pain in his back had receded, the weight on his shoulders seemed to have doubled since the previous day.

His palms stung from where his claws had embedded into them as he clenched his fists; he had been fine until he’d seen the cage, then all of a sudden he’d had a pointy manicure. Hedgely had sternly cautioned him to try and keep that under control. “ _No fangs, no claws, no nothing. Creatures don’t have rights. Don’t give them an excuse to see you as one,”_ had been the lawyer’s parting shot before Draco had been escorted to the holding room.

Draco had no assumptions that this hearing would end in his favour. His heartbeat a solemn defeated thrum in his chest, marking each heavy step towards the gallows. The Wizengamot had exactly what they all needed for their post-war campaign – a Malfoy, a death-eater, without rights. His life was forfeit in the palms of their hands.

A dead man walking.

At thirteen, even he’d known that creatures were executed when they acted out of line.

An emergency hearing with less than a day’s notice. The nihilist in him couldn’t help but respect the cunning, cut-throat nature of it all. The Wizengamot were not playing games, this was their final move. The wizarding society were salivating for revenge and this was Check-Mate.

Hedgely knew it too, which is why he had desperately been trying to get hold of Narcissa whilst he had been coaching Draco for the last twenty hours. Lawyers in the wizarding world functioned more as legal advisors than the seraphic saviours of the muggle courtrooms. Defendants in the wizarding world were expected to defend themselves. Thus, Hedgely had spent the better part of the night, running through every possible scenario or play - from interrogation to execution. Regardless, he hadn’t gotten a response from Narcissa and so he had rushed to the Manor in the few spare moments before the hearing began, under the assumption that this would be the last time that Draco would see her.

He swallowed thickly around a swell of grief and twisted his wrists in the shackles again.

The gears were still whirring, laying secondary locking enchantments on the bars now that the protections were in place. He felt his collar begin to tighten, the space that allowed for him to twist in his bonds disappeared. He was locked into place, the steel biting into his skin. And as he accepted that this was his final moments, the hollow place in his chest panged a sombre keel of pain.

Draco bit into his cheek, closed his eyes and leant again his occlumency walls.

Molten honey and nutmeg.

During the easier years, Draco had known he a flourish for dramatics, but he always refuted any criticism of this with the assertion that life was mundane without it. It was rather poetic, he mused as the caged shuddered around him and the guards stepped away, it was rather poetic that his penchant for drama had summoned her in his final moments. Her, a woman who would never think of him or know what she meant to him. Him, who did not truly understand and therefore would never utter the name of what she was to him. Not now. There was no point.

He couldn’t decide if it was his wish or his Veela’s, (and at this point, the differentiation didn’t matter), but he longed for her to be happy after he was gone, all molten honey and nutmeg.

A groan of metal echoed around the room and Draco looked up to see a hole open in the ceiling above.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to empty air as the cage gave a final tremulous shudder before it began to rise toward the light that shone through. Draco closed his eyes, wincing at the pain in his corneas as they ached from the sudden exposure.

The cage **clunked** as it settled into place. Draco blinked repeatedly, soothing his assaulted eyes until he took one final shivered breath and looked upon the room.

His fists tightened and he felt a swell of blood seep through his knuckles.

The full Wizengamot sat high in their benches, their impassive stares looked down on him from all sides of his cage.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and saw a flushed Hedgely take a seat. Draco waited a moment and saw no further movement. When the lawyer was settled he minutely shook his head at Draco’s silent question.

His mother wasn’t coming.

Draco closed his eyes to savour as much privacy as the collar would allow, to trick himself that he was alone for a second more. He needed a moment to shore his walls. He knew that it wouldn’t matter; his emotions were inconsequential at this point, but it was ingrained into him – _“Malfoy’s never show weakness,”_ his father used to snap.

“Warlock Henway, proceed.”

He felt another drop of blood loosen itself from between his fingers.

“Prisoner Four Forty-Four was charged with three accounts of conspiracy, three accounts of treason, one account of attempted murder, one account of lawful endangerment of minors, nine accounts of fighting as an enemy combatant, two accounts of successful use of an Unforgivable Curse, one account of attempted use of an Unforgivable Curse, and one use of a cursed item to cause grievous harm. What say you Four Forty-Four?” The clipped baritone echoed around the silent hall.

Draco swallowed, his dry throat constricting in its strangled hold. “Aye,” he croaked, his voice cracking as he did.

“Prisoner Four Forty-Four’s actions were found to warrant the mitigating factor that he was a minor at the time that these actions were committed. What say you Four Forty-Four?”

“Aye.”

“Further mitigating circumstances were held that these actions were done under labour or duress. What say you Four Forty-Four?”

Draco’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips as his walls convulsed violently under the strain. “Aye.”

“Prisoner Four Forty-Four was sentenced to a two-year sentence at Azkaban and is due for release in ten months’ time,” the Warlock finished promptly and took his seat.

There was a pause, thick with tension. Draco looked up and met the Shacklebolt’s gaze and waited in fear of what would come next. A witch with golden wireframe glasses and a sour expression stood, parchment raised aloft.

“It has come to the Ministry’s attention that Four Forty-Four has undergone a full-creature inheritance,” she announced haughtily. Whispers rippled throughout the room, the witch continued, unfazed by the noise. “This party raises the notion that Four Forty-Four’s case is declassified under Section 9B of The Dangerous Creatures Act of 1463, therefore remanded to The Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.”

The hissing murmurs rose to a roar as Draco’s stomach dropped.

There it was.

Though he had been confident that they would move for execution, to hear the notion raised felt like hearing a nail in his coffin. Hedgely had suspected that due to the short time frame, not all members of the Wizengamot were going to be apprised of the details of the case. Draco suspected that those who were left out of the know were most likely those who held family seats. Politically, if he was to have any hope, it lay with them, their mercy and their quick thinking.

He wasn’t hopeful.

“Order!” Shacklebolt barked over the calamitous noise. The voices petered out, leaving silence to ring through the chamber. Shacklebolt surveyed the gathered politicians with a severe look. “Any other notions?” He asked grimly.

A wizard who Draco vaguely recognised stood. “This party raises the notion that under Section 4a, subsection Alpha-Beta of the inheritance amendment of 1301 of the Bylaws of Infinitae Famalia-”

Shouts of outraged objections rose around the room like the swell of a tsunami. Draco struggled to maintain the passive look on his face. He had no idea what this Bylaw was, but anything other than the Dangerous Creatures Act was a welcome addition. He also doubted that it would work in his favour; an obscure law such as this would have required aforethought.

“This party-” The wizard tried to continue but his voice was drowned out by the anger coming from one portion of the room.

“Order!”

The quarry of voices grew louder.

“ORDER!” Shacklebolt’s shout carried a menacing edge to it that immediately hushed the room into a hive of disgruntled buzzing.

“This party,” the Wizard continued on unbothered, “raises the notion that the changed nature Four Forty-Four’s being, means that he cannot be held to his previous convictions. Furthermore, his previous convictions cannot stand,” he raised his voice to continue over the riotous noise that had escalated once again. “AND FURTHERMORE, TO RETRY FOUR FORTY-FOUR WOULD BE DOUBLE JEOPARDY…”

“I WILL HAVE ORDER IN THIS ROOM!” Shacklebolt boomed.

“To retry the prisoner for these charges, so as to be applicable under the Dangerous Creatures Act is double jeopardy. Therefore, this party’s notion is for the immediate release of the creature Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Chaos exploded throughout the courtroom. Wizards and witches stood from their seats, their fingers pointing accusingly, spittle flying from their enraged mouths. Parchment reports were brandished as weapons with fierce looks of incensed fury. Draco tasted iron as he felt his teeth sharpen and bite into his cheek.

Freedom or death. All or nothing.

His chest bloomed with bitter hope. He knew he shouldn’t believe. He knew that that kind of luck didn’t happen to him; he was not to be rewarded for his choices in life. What were the chances that the families that he had been relying on to have mercy on him, just so happened to hold the knowledge of some obscure archaic law... _Quite high probably. Still,_ he chided himself. That luck didn't happen to him, so this _had_ to be something else. And so deep down he still believed that he would not see the sunrise another day.

And yet…

He shifted his shoulders; the dull ache that had been intensifying there now sliced down his shoulder blades like a red-hot knife. He jutted his jaw forward to try and ease the bite of the collar around his throat and felt a trickle of warmth meander its way down his neck.

The noise was so loud in the room, the turbulent wall of voices clamouring over one another was so disorganised that it was impossible for Draco to identify a singular argument in hope of ascertaining which way the tide was turning.

Movement close to his cage caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see a tall, gaunt-looking man, dressed head-to-foot in wrapped black and soft boots, his complexion pale around his raven hair and piercingly dark eyes. He stood quietly next to the cage, his head bowed, his hands pocketed loosely like a grim sentinel. From where Draco was, he could make out the severe angles of a drawn expression on the haunted face of the man, his jaw popping from where he clenched it. He had never seen this man before, he didn’t recognise the clothing either and so couldn’t place him in amongst the Ministry.

The blossom of hope withered and died a death in his chest.

Whoever this man was, he wasn’t Draco’s white knight. He was a harbinger of Draco’s inevitable fatal conclusion; his black attire and stern lines leant him the air of an executioner.

As the seconds drew on, one by one the voices faltered until the room was still, the audience waiting with held breath and shocked expressions as they too, noticed the new man who had appeared silently in the centre of the room.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat and twitched in his seat, his brow furrowed in, what Draco thought to be genuine confusion.

“Mr Willows?”

The man next to the cage sighed delicately and raised his head.

“I uh,” Shacklebolt frowned, his eyes darting around the assembled court, “do you have a notion to raise?”

“What has been said thus far?” Mr Willows’ voice was like brushed silk; he spoke with a gentle effect that held all the restrained fury of a storm.

Shacklebolt glanced to the witch who had stood first. “Two notions have been put forth: one is that Mr Malfoy is to declassified under Section 9B of The Dangerous Creatures Act of 1463.”

Willows made a noise in the back of his throat so quietly that Draco was sure only he had heard it.

“The second notion is that the Bylaws of Infinitae Famalia 1301, section…” Shacklebolt’s narrowed gaze glanced down to the notes in front of him, “section 4a is it?” He said in askance in the direction of the wizard had stood.

“Correct - Section 4a, subsection Alpha-Beta of the inheritance amendment.” The wizard concurred.

“And that does what exactly?” Willows replied.

“Seeks Mr Malfoys release,” said Shacklebolt, his head titled as he appraised the raven man.

Willows tutted quietly, his head bowed, eyes focused on the foot he scuffed along the floor.

“Do you…” Shacklebolt moved in his seat again and cleared his throat, his discomfort evident on his face. “Forgive me Willows, but why are you here?”

Willows locked eyes with Draco.

Fresh blood spilt across his tongue as he bit harder into his cheek.

“Mr Malfoy is under the protection of the Department of Mysteries.”

The answering silence was deafening.

_…WHAT?!_

“So,” Willows continued, breaking his gaze from Draco’s to survey the shocked audience around them. “You can release him under the Bylaws if you wish, that will not affect our work. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to supersede your notion to execute him,” he purred, a smooth grin stretching across his face, “due to the fact that Mr Malfoy cannot be declassified under the Dangerous Creatures Act for reasons that I am not at liberty to divulge. Thus if he is not heard under the Bylaws, well…” He raised shoulders in a disaffected shrug, his hands still pocketed. “I suggest we deliver Mr Malfoy back to Azkaban so he can _peacefully_ serve the rest of his allotted sentence and forget that this ever happened.”

Draco felt the tension in the room ratchet up a notch. The shrewd witch who had spoken initially peered over her glasses down at them, her face pinched in disgust.

“So just like that,” her voice rang, “we’re supposed to allow you to wipe our notion from the table? What makes you think you can do that Mr Willows?”

“Because I can,” Willows’ grin turned feral as he tilted his chin up to her.

The witch did not react, it was as though she had expected the response. “As the head of your department, I would have thought that you wouldn’t have any direct involvement with cases Mr Willows,” she left the rest of the statement hanging in the air between them, the implication and accusation obvious in her voice.

Willows chuckled. “I am the acting supervisor for this case. My lead investigator is currently indisposed elsewhere. I don’t know how you run your department Madam, but in mine, everyone does their job and picks up the slack where they can.”

The witch bristled, puffed her chest indignantly and opened her mouth to reply when –

“And who are you to criticise my work?” Willows interrupted. “Who are you, to question my actions?” He prowled closer to her corner of the room, his voice rising in agitation. “Who. Are. You.” He finished with a barely contained growl that echoed throughout the chamber.

The witch remained silent, her unspoken words dying on her tongue, her eyes wide under the wireframes. Though she tried to maintain an impassive façade, her lips had thinned in contrition and the stillness of her ramrod-straight posture belayed her unease.

Nobody moved.

“Legally speaking,” Shacklebolt began uneasily, “within the constitution of this Government, the Department of Mysteries does have a legal precedent for overhauling actions that may interfere with their work.” He turned to the clerks who bustled behind him and took a thick stack of parchment that was offered to him. “I refer you too…” he scrutinised the document, “Ministry of Magic, DMLE verses Roodershot, 1548.”

“This is preposterous!” A wizard shouted from somewhere off to the left.

“And yet it is the case. You can rally and tantrum all you wish, but it makes no difference to the words written in black and white.” Willows sang, turning away from where he was staring down the witch, swinging his legs as he stepped around the front of Draco’s cage as if nonchalantly guarding his territory.

Draco heard murmurs ripple through the benches of the Wizengamot. The tattered shreds of hope slithered together and feebly began to stitch themselves whole. His fists felt tacky with the blood that now flowed freely and dripped to the floor, his neck had gone numb where the collar pinched into it and his stomach turned from having to constantly swallow the blood that flowed from his cheeks.

But there was a chance.

Whoever this indomitable man who stalked the courtroom floor like a prowling grim was, was Draco’s surest chance of survival. And now that he had a taste of promised freedom, Draco was ravenous. The cage, that he had willingly accepted to be his tomb when he had no hope, felt too claustrophobic; he looked around him in shock as if only just noticing the cocoon of spikes that contained him.

For the first time since Hedgely had delivered the news, the numbness of accepting despair washed away. From the recesses of his mind, Fear approach cautiously, wrapped in her blanket, awakened from her disassociative slumber. With hope blooming wild in Draco’s chest, Fear felt justified in her presence. The promise of freedom was tangible. A life beyond four walls of a barren cell. A life where the sky was more than a hole in the wall, where the clouds rolled by in a snapshot frame. A life where the sun shone freely, her warmth and light spreading far and wide rather than existing in a single beam that moved a golden rectangle across the floor. Fear unwrapped her blanket with a matador’s flourish and tenderly swathed Draco in it.

The level of noise in the room began to rise again, as politicians whose faces were a plum as their robes resumed their quarrelling. Draco looked to Willows and started when he realised the man had been watching him in turn. His cold, coal eyes raked over Draco’s face, sending shivers of unease down his spine. The claustrophobia he felt from the cage was overwhelmed by the urge to hide from this man’s scrutiny. He felt exposed and vulnerable.

Trapped.

Draco watched as Willows stepped closer to the cage, seemingly unperturbed by the anarchy he had caused around him. His gaze dipped and narrowed on Draco’s hands. He raised a brow in askance, meeting Draco’s eyes again. Draco swallowed heavily and tried to flex his wrist, the tight shackle chaffed painfully as it held him in place.

_“Malfoy’s never show weakness.”_

“Breathe,” Willows commanded lowly, his black eyes bored into silver. Draco dragged cool air through his nose, his chest strained in an effort to keep his movement constricted from the menacing spike.

“Just breathe,” Willows repeated with a final look before turning back to the still crowing Wizengamot.

Draco took another breath.

“ORDER!” Shacklebolt boomed once again, repeatedly hammering his gavel. Eventually, the room quietened. “I have heard your arguments. Even if I could, I would not override Mr Willows on this,” a pit of angry vipers hissed their discontent. “Therefore, I rule to a vote. All those in favour of returning Mr Malfoy to Azkaban?”

Draco closed his eyes, unable to calm his hammering heart. He felt the prick of unshed tears. His knees shook with strain.

“And all those in favour of ruling under the Bylaws of Infinitae Famalia of 1301, Section 4a, subsection Alpha-Beta of the inheritance amendment…”

Draco couldn’t breathe. His heart was in his throat.

Silence.

He heard the rustle of parchment.

“Very well. I hear by announce that on this day, Draco Lucius Malfoy, due to the inherent change in your nature, you are no longer the man you once were in presence, mind, stature and spirit.”

Draco’s eyes snapped open and he sought out Shacklebolt who stared down at him with an unforgiving glare.

“Therefore, as per the Bylaws, you cannot be held against the crimes you committed as when you were but once a man. You are therefore technically absolved of your previous self’s crimes and are henceforth a free being. However,” his deep rich timbre reverberated grandiosely throughout the deathly silent chamber, “if you are caught in such criminal ways, according to these very same Bylaws, you shall be afforded the treatment that your changed nature demands.”

Draco blinked, the sound of his blood pulsing was deafening in his ears.

“Mr Malfoy if I may be frank, you have witnessed here today, the tip of the iceberg of the range of opinions and beliefs that are held concerning you and your family. You have one chance to make it right. I fear that if there is to be a next time, neither Mr Willows nor an antiquated Bylaw written for the express purposes of protecting the Sacred Twenty-Eight will be able to save you. Do you understand me Mr Malfoy? Your situation and standing is more precarious than it has ever been. Do not give us the excuse.” He levelled Draco with a foreboding glower. Draco swallowed heavily in an attempt to clear his throat to answer him, but the combination of his bloodied mouth, pointed teeth, collar and the emotion that choked him, prohibited him from finding his voice. Instead, he nodded slowly and surely, whilst praying the non-verbal response would suffice.

Shacklebolt held him within his sights a breath longer before he nodded with finality in return. He picked up his wand from where it lay on the podium.

“I hereby pronounce the case of the Ministry Verses Prisoner Four Forty-Four closed. You are a free man.” He hammered the gavel once and swished his wand before him.

Over the eruption of conversation around him, Draco heard the gears of his cage whir to life. An ominous **pop** sounded and golden glitter shimmered to the floor. With a final **clunk,** the cage door popped open.

Immediately Draco began to panic. The wards were down, he was still locked into the shackles and he was wandless in a room full of people who had just argued moments before as to whether or not he should be killed. Suddenly, Willows loomed into view, opening the heavy door with ease and crowding into the cage.

“Look at me,” he ordered quietly, his wand appearing from his sleeve. “Focus on me, breathe. Just breathe.”

Draco’s senses were overwhelmed with the scent, taste, sound and feel of his blood; on his hands, on his tongue, in his ears and down his throat. He swallowed thickly focusing on Willow’s face as the man muttered incantations under his breath, his wand pointing at the shackles. The roar of his pulse was deafening in his ears and he struggled to draw a steady breath as Fear pulled her blanket tightly around him, suffocating him in its cloth. Suddenly, he heard the shackle **click** open and both his wrists were released. He stretched them, fists still clenched, relishing the freedom.

“Just a moment more,” Willows breathed as he pointed his wand to the collar and repeated the incantation. Draco’s eyes darted to the movement around the room. Here and there, he could see groups with their heads bowed together, faces angry, their eyes flitting back to his exposed form.

“Eyes on me,” Willows hissed, “focus on your breathing.” He repeatedly sternly as he twisted his wrist in a final flourished and the collar **popped** its release.

Draco gulped a breath as his knees buckled. He felt strong hands catch his shoulders and drag him out from the cage. He blinked rapidly, clearing his vision that had blurred from the tears that had yet to drop. His fingers screamed as he finally loosened his fists to clasp onto the soft leather of Willows’ uniform, smearing his bloodied palms across its warm surface. He felt a slice of fire shoot down his back as Willows manoeuvred himself to bare Draco’s weight across his shoulders, an arm wrapped securely around his waist. Willows then proceeded to set a punishing pace as he half dragged him stumbling across the polished floors and from the room.

“Mr Malfoy!” he heard Hedgely exclaim from behind, followed by the breathless wheezes of the elder man as he caught up with them.

“You are?” He felt the words rumble through Willows’ chest.

“Family lawyer, where are you taking him?”

“Away from here, where’s home?”

There was a pause.

_Home._

His pulse fluttered.

“Calm yourself,” Willows murmured.

“The manor. Can he floo?” said Hedgely uneasily, answering the previous question.

“Probably, but let’s not drag him through the atrium with all the press out there. I’ll apparate him.”

 _Press?_ He blinked his unfocused eyes. He saw flashes of lights reflected onto the black polished floor of the corridor. The stride of Willows’ soft black boots. The wrap of his robes from where Draco’s head lolled against the man’s shoulder and chest.

“How did the press find out?” Came Hedgely’s reply.

“I have no idea,” Willows growled, pulling Draco down another corridor and through a door. The room beyond was carpeted with a dark thick plush, the comforting smell of sage and alcohol overwhelmed the irony tang that clung to his nose. He blinked, the room melding into focus briefly. The room was lit with a warm welcome glow, books and strange equipment littered every surface. 

“Welcome to the Department of Mysteries Mr Malfoy, please enjoy your stay,” Willows muttered glibly. “Will you be coming with us lawyer-man?” He tacked on the end, halting his stride to look back at Hedgely. The sudden stop carried Draco’s body forward with the left-over momentum before Willows iron grip pulled him back.

His head was swimming, his skin was burning, everything hurt.

He was free.

_I’ve gone insane._

“Yes, I better had to explain some things.” Hedgely bustled.

“Whatever you say, hold on. Mr Malfoy, deep breath in now,” Willows ordered in a clipped tone. His grip tightened around Draco’s waist before the familiar pull, deep in his navel, blinked him out of the carpeted room and delivered him onto grey gravel.

His feet scuffled across the uneven surface, skittering stones as he struggled to find purchase. He felt the cold press of an autumnal breeze on his face and froze.

He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, the clean cool air clearing the airways that had had nothing but stale air for over a year.

Goosebumps rose on his skin as his hair swayed in the wind that kissed his cheek.

Leaning heavily against Willows, he lifted his head and looked up.

The sky.

Moving, rolling, soft grey clouds drifted like ghostly giants through the infinite open horizon. In the distance, the clouds touched the rich green slope of a hill. Upon that hill stood tall trees, their trunks bowed with age, their branches reaching toward the sky, their leaves rustling as the wind from the clouds danced playfully through them.

Draco gulped, the fresh air clearing his senses. His eyes tracked back and landed on the towering wrought-iron fences of his home. He stumbled away from Willows, his heart stubbornly beating a renewed rhythm of hope.

_Home._

He landed heavily against the fences that creaked open at his touch, welcoming him onto the grounds. He stumbled on, his feet clumsy beneath him, his jaw set as he determinedly began to make his way down the long gravelled driveway. At the end of the drive stood the darkened windows of the ruins of his childhood home. Malfoy Manor stood as proud as it always had, creeping ivy cascaded down its imposing walls. The wings of the house were dark on all sides as Draco approach. Not a curtain twitch. Not a flicker of flame. No dancing shadows or echoed screams. It was a mausoleum. It was warmth. It was a tomb of nightmares. It was lazy Sunday’s chasing peacocks.

_Home._

The grounds were peaceful. The hedgerows manicured to perfection. In the distance, he heard the familiar **caw** that somewhat settled his nerves.

“Mr Malfoy, please you must-”

“I don’t think he’s listening right now,” Willows’ silken voice commented, in an attempt to placate the blustering elder man as they followed behind.

_Home._

Unsteadily, Draco attempted to mount the steps that led to the heavy oak front doors. He teetered dangerously until he felt the secure grip of Willow’s long fingers on his arm, anchoring him, and he began to heave himself up the shallow steps.

“Mr Malfoy I really must interject,” Hedgely’s stressed voice tittered as Draco slumped against the front door. He turned the handle and fell through the entryway as his weight forced the door to open.

Suddenly, Draco found himself pinned, an arm braced in front of him, his face pressed against the aged wood. He felt his claws pierce the frame in an effort to keep himself standing from the unexpected assault.

“Drop your wand,” Willows growled from his protective position.

“You first sunshine.”

A wave of emotion constricted around Draco’s throat as Hedgely pushed through the remaining space of the entryway. “Now, now, everybody-”

“Blaise?” Draco’s voice cracked as he peered over the arm barricading him in. He saw the shock register on Blaise’s face, the tip of his wand falling slightly from where it was pointed at Willows. Willows looked questioningly over his shoulder down at Draco, who gave a brief nod before he moved to help him stand.

“Fuck me, it’s true,” Blaise breathed, his eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief as he swiped a hand over his mouth. “You’re really here. You’re really out of there?” 

Draco nodded dumbly and before he could speak again, Blaise crossed the entryway and wrapped him into a tight embrace. Draco breathed in the mixed spices of the expensive cologne that Blaise had always worn and felt his body relax into the hold.

“What are you doing here?” He breathed the question, his voice lost.

“I read the paper, came here to see if it was true,” Blaise replied. “Been here ever since ‘cause y’know-”

“Mr Malfoy I…” Hedgely interrupted cautiously, “I’m sorry but I really do need to talk to you.”

Draco lifted his head from Blaise’s shoulder and spied the lawyer wringing his old hands, his face askew with worry.

“What is it?” he said, clasping a hand securely on to Blaise’s shoulder while moving away, too afraid to let go incase he should wake from his dream.

“It’s your Mother.”

Draco froze, immediately tensing. Blaise hissed and tried to pull away from him. The movement caught his attention and he saw where his clawed hands had begun to dig into the leather jacket covering his friend’s shoulder. In horror, Draco snatched his hand away and clutched it to his chest. He avoided Blaise’s alarmed look at his hands in favour of returning to Hedgely.

“Where is my mother?”

“Well, Mr Mal-”

“Where is she?” Draco’s voice dropped, his resonance flirted with a sinister threat. He rolled his neck, the white-hot pain returning once again to his shoulders. Hedgely backed up a step, the whites of his eyes gleamed in the gloom of the entryway.

“Mr Lawyer-man, if I may, but it would be wise to stop pissing around and start talking,” Willows intoned glibly from where he leant against the opposite door frame, still within reaching distance.

“She ordered me to keep it from you,” Hedgely choked, bereft emotion evident on his face.

“Keep what?” said Draco taking a step towards the man.

Hedgely backed up another step, apologies and remorse streaming incoherently from his lips. Draco’s vision narrowed to focus on the man, all the light drained away till the only thing he could see was the fear in the older man’s eyes. He rolled his shoulders and craned his neck from side to side, stretching out the tight feeling.

“The potions Draco.”

He stopped his advance.

His surprise immediately overwriting his cold fury.

“Pardon?” Draco asked, spinning back towards Blaise who had spoken.

“The potions, she’s been on them since you and your Father went to away. She’s developed something of a dependency on Calming draughts and whiskey. It’s why I’ve been hanging around here all day. She’s chasing the dragon as we speak,” said Blaise warily, his hand brushing the back of his neck as he did.

Draco stumbled, his knees giving out suddenly; he reached out blindly for anything – a hand secured itself under his arm again and the now familiar scent of leather and smoke filled his senses as he took a shuddering breath.

“Show me,” he whispered.

The entryway was a long hall, lined with suits of armour, whispering portraits and various chaise lounges for guests to perch whilst they waited for admittance or for their coats. At the end of the hall, the path split into two corridors and in the middle lay a grand staircase that, to the left led to the east and north wing, and the right to the west and south wing. Blaise took the lead and started up the stairs, Hedgeley followed close behind speaking to him in hurried hushed tones. Draco grounded himself with the grip that remained on his arm. He looked over his shoulder at Willows who was waiting patiently, watching him with curious regard.

“Why are you helping me?” Draco asked quietly once they had begun to make their way up the grand staircase. He felt, rather than heard, the vibrations of a chuckle in Willows’ chest.

“Well it seemed to me like you were having a bit of a bad day so why not?” he grinned, placing an extra hand around Draco’s waist when his knees buckled slightly. “Why’d you ask?”

“I can’t figure out why you’re still here. I don’t know you. I can’t give you anything and I know you said that I was under the Department of Mysteries protection but this is…” he searched for the word. _Too nice?_ “I’m just assuming that everyone in the government wants me dead after today, so forgive me for second-guessing your intentions.” Draco finished lamely, pausing his ascension to lean heavily against a bannister to catch is breath.

_I need to lie down and sleep…for a decade… and shower…_

_Oh my Sweet glorious Salazar, a shower!!! Running water!_ He felt a smile spread across his lips at the realisation that this dream would now become a very plausible reality. Willows made a questioning noise and Draco looked up to see the gaunt man watching him with a lifted brow of bemusement at Draco’s sudden change in demeanour.

“Nothing,” he dismissed, making his way up the stairs again.

They were quiet a moment, focused on each step before Willows spoke again.

“I’m here because, as you said, you’re under my protection and also, if I don’t make sure you’re safe and settled, I feel that it may reflect rather poorly on me in the future. I figured it would be irresponsible to leave you in such a vulnerable way, all things considered.” He threw a smirk at Draco as they veered off the right, taking the exit for the west wing – his mother’s wing.

Draco mulled on what Willows had said as they hobbled down the corridor toward the closed door that lay at the end of it, golden light glowing from beneath it. He assessed the man from the corner of his eye. From Draco’s first impression within the cage, he had sensed something ‘off’ about the man; after having spent a little more than half an hour with him, he concluded that Willows was a man of juxtapositions. In one breath, he was as gentle as silk, with light grins and jovial glibness that reminded him keenly of Theo. In another, he was fierce movements, sharp-tongued and menacing growls that detracted from his humanity. But though both sides of this Janus man lay at opposite ends of the spectrum, Willows wore an aura of death like a perfume over it all. As a result, Draco got the impression that as the softer side of him helped him stumble around and waited for him patiently, the blackness of Willows' eyes told him that it really was by choice, and that should Willows see fit, that kindness could be taken as easily as it was given.

Draco simultaneously wanted to trust him and run from him.

At the end of the hall, Blaise waited until Draco was on the threshold before knocking twice, opening the door ajar and peeking his head in.

“All good?” Draco heard him say. He could hear a woman’s voice reply but not the words she spoke.

Blaise pulled back out and pushed open the door, gesturing for Draco to step through.

The room beyond was cast in a warm low glow; the air, thick with a heady, filled with a sickly sweet scent that made Draco’s nose burn. The fireplace was crackling merrily away, the flames dancing low on the logs. The cream antique French parlour chairs his mother had brought over from their estate in France, much to his Father’s chagrin, were draped carelessly in a multitude of blankets and pashminas; the corner of one chair was stained with an aggressive red splash. The floor was littered pearls; an overturned carafe lay abandoned on the floor by the vanity.

A flash of lime green caught his attention and a healer rounded the bed, approaching the group with a warm smile on her round, cherubic face.

“Mr Malfoy I presume? I’m Healer Afton,” she said in a lilting broguish accent, extending her hand towards Draco to shake. Numbly he nodded, gently clasping her small hand in his still clawed ones.

“My mother?” he croaked. The healer stepped back and led him around the bed. Between the gap in the pulled curtains of the four-poster, Draco spied Narcissa’s unconscious form. He stumbled away from Willows and sunk to his knees next to her mattress. She looked worse than when she had visited him in his cell. She was pale and gaunt, her cheekbones nearly as sharp as his own. The sunken sockets of her eyes accentuated the shadows of exhaustion. Her chapped lips were pale and parted slightly, blowing shallow breaths over her unkempt hair.

“How long has she been like this?” Draco whispered, his eyes pricking once again.

“Since you and your father went away,” Blaise answered, knowing what Draco was asking. “Pansy thought we’d better come around, to see if she needed anything. She was rather drunk that day, and while we were concerned, it wasn’t completely unexpected. We started coming by more often to keep an eye on her. Pans suspected she was imbibing potions but we never saw any evidence of it. Then around Christmas, I think it all got a bit too much. She got careless and we caught her. Healer Afton is a friend of Theo; she’s been coming by since February. A couple of times, Pans has managed to get her to stay sober, but then the Prophet runs a Post-War campaign article or whatever and she’s gone again.”

Draco ran a finger over the back of Narcissa’s hand. The skin was so delicate and soft, the dark lines of spidery veins we stark against the dainty bones. Her eyelids fluttered, the dark lashes feathering against her ghostly complexion.

“She didn’t want you or your father to know. She kept saying that you both had enough to worry about… I’m sorry Draco.” Blaise finished, unease evident in his voice.

Draco wanted to be angry. He wanted to scream, cry, sleep, hurt something – break something. They had all suffered, not one of them was whole after the war. Narcissa had hidden it so well from him on her visits; sure he had thought she had looked a little peaky, a little under-weight for her already slight frame. But he’d had no idea it had gotten that bad. _Potions._

A tear broke free from its prison, a silently tracked down his cheek. He swiped it clean away and looked up to the healer, where she stood off to the side.

“Healer… apologies, I-”

“Afton,” she interjected with a patient smile.

Draco nodded in return. “Thank you for everything you have done for my mother,” he said, his voice thick in his throat.

“You’re most welcome, I’ve grown fond of Lady Malfoy over these months. She’s quite a character,” she said kindly, her smile warm with affection.

Another swell of emotion breached Draco’s throat, his vision blurred with tears yet to fall. He blinked them away rapidly and cleared his throat with a gruff.

“Your kindness is becoming,” he commented, his etiquette was rough after many months of disuse. “In your professional opinion, what is the best way forward for her?”

Afton’s smile relaxed, her brows pitched in relief. “My opinion Mr Malfoy, is that after this most recent setback, she should be in St Mungo’s for obs, until which time the potion and alcohol are clear from her system. I’ve been doing the best I can here, but she made me promise that I would only admit her to St Mungo’s if it were a life and death situation. And though she’s gone heavy at times, it hasn’t necessarily put her life at immediate risk. With your permission though Sir, I could take her in today.” She looked down at her hands that were clasped in front of her uniform before meeting his eyes again. “Respectfully, it’s this place. She needs to be away from it.” 

Draco sucked on a tooth before nodding to himself, decision made. “She didn’t make you sign anything did she?” He queried the healer.

“No sir,” she replied, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Very well, if you take her in today, can you ensure her privacy?”

“Of course sir, patient confidentiality is imperative. If I can ask one of these gentlemen to assist me, we can apparate her in and I’ll take care of her admittance, make sure she’s away from prying eyes.”

“Hedgely you go,” said Blaise from where he leant against a chair. Hedgely jumped up, wiping his brow before stowing a handkerchief into his front pocket.

“Of course, at your service Healer Afton.”

“Have one of the house-elves apparate you past the wards, otherwise you’ll have to go down to the lane,” Draco remarked. “Bispy,” he commanded, relief filling him at the sound of a **pop** filling the room. Part of him hadn’t been sure there were house-elves still at the Manor, let alone whether or not they’d respond to his call. A small house elf with comically large floppy ears appeared between the wizards. Bispy’s large eyes settled on Draco and her hands shot to her mouth, barely covering a squeal so high pitched that Willows winced and turned away in an attempt to defend himself from the noise.

“Master is home! Bispy hoped it would be so when she saw the newspaper, Joply said it wouldn’t be the case, but Bispy hoped sir!” She cried as one of her tiny hands pulled her ear in a comforting motion, while the other banged her clenched righteous fist.

“Thank you Bispy, I’m very glad to be here. Would you be so kind as to apparate Healer Afton, Mr Hedgely and Lady Malfoy to St Mungo’s please?” Draco asked, falling easily back into the role he hadn’t played for so long as if he were slipping on an old cloak.

“Yes sir, Bispy will help Lady Malfoy. We have been so worried, but Lady Malfoy ordered us to not interfere sir,” she said.

Draco turned back to his mother and watched as her brow creased slightly before relaxing once more. He grasped her hand in his and pressed his lips to the fragile skin. Placing it tenderly back to her side, he leant heavily against the mattress and pushed himself standing, overshooting his momentum slightly, only to be caught by Willows again.

“Mr Malfoy, if I may, you look like you could also do with some medical assistance too,” Afton broached tentatively as she rounded the bed to get his mother ready. “I can take a look if you like?”

“No, no, this one’s looking after me,” he gestured with a nod of his head to his grim guardian in more confidence than he felt. Willows flashed a toothy grin to the healer. “When will I be able to come and see her?” Draco continued.

“Visiting hours are between two and six. I’ll send an owl in the morning to let you know what ward she’s on,” Afton replied. With a wave of her wand, the luxurious red quilt wrapped itself snuggly around Narcissa’s sleeping form. Afton levitated her carefully from the bed with a sway of her wand and guided her out into the open. Draco leant against Willows. In his worldview, Narcissa Malfoy was many things: she was a socialite, a Lady of the Manor, a philanthropist, a caring mother, a loving wife. But above all, she was iron-willed and fierce, so her large and unforgiving presence had always commanded any room with grace. It was with bitter surprise that he viewed Narcissa’s small figure, bundled in the thick quilt. She looked breakable.

She was glass.

“I’ll send an owl as soon as she’s settled and I’ll keep an eye on her tonight. Thank you Mr Malfoy, she needs this,” Afton smiled kindly, turning to the assembled group. The strange party clasped hold of each other; Hedgeley and Afton both securing Narcissa’s floating form, while Bispy took hold of their free hands. With a **click** and a **pop** , they were gone, leaving Draco with Blaise and Willows.

The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room. The air was laden with an exhausted atmosphere like one would expect after a high stress situation with no release.

“So… uh, can we talk about the -” Blaise said, gesturing up and down Draco’s body, “your new look and the shady dude stood in the corner?”

Willows snorted indelicately from where he stood behind Draco.

“Not right now Blaise, tomorrow,” Draco replied as he started to make his way out of the room. He heard footsteps follow. “I’m exhausted and I need a shower and I kinda want to just be alone right now.”

“Draco-”

“Please,” Draco begged sibilantly, spinning quickly to look at Blaise. “Both of you.” He added, shifting his focus to Willows who was stood behind Blaise.

Blaise blanched, his mouth opening and closing before his shoulders dropped heavily in defeat.

“You want to stay here?” Blaise replied looking around with a sceptical look on his face. 

“I need to sleep in my own bed,” said Draco, turning to make his way slowly down the hall. They walked in silence until they reached the grand staircase. Draco leant against the balcony bannister that overlooked the steps down. Blaise paused on the first step of his descent and looked up to him.

“If you change your mind at any point, no matter the time, there’s a room for you in London with us. I’ll leave the address on the mantel for you to floo if you need it. But I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you anyway alright?” Blaise eyed his friend with evident concern. “You su-”

“Positive,” Draco interrupted with finality. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that Blaise began to meander down the stairs. Draco turned to Willows who was watching him quietly.

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me today,” Draco said, “I’ll be fine from here.”

Willows tilted his head assessing, his black eyes roving over Draco’s face.

“No you won’t,” he replied ominously.

“What?” A tingle of warning ran down Draco’s spine.

Willows remained silent whilst he continued his assessment before he pocketed his hands and began to make his way down the stairs.

“Make sure you’re calm before you floo later Mr Malfoy. Don’t do anything too hastily otherwise you’ll end up in Mungo’s as well.”

Draco’s face crumpled in confusion, “I’m not go-”

Willows waved a flippant salute over his shoulder as he skipped passed Blaise down the stairs, who looked back up in question. Draco waved him off, still staring in confusion at Willows retreating form.

He watched until he saw their forms retreat into the drawing-room off to the right of the hall where the floo was before he turned and began to make his way carefully towards the east wing – his wing. 

The long corridor was lined with a wall of windows that overlooked the grounds, and the mid-afternoon sun spilt onto the soft carpets. Draco shuffled along, step by cautious step, stopping often to admire the vista. Though his memory was eidetic, reliving a memory in a cell was not comparable to the real thing. In the distance, the sun shone on the grassy hills that rippled in waves as the breeze brushed through it. He had learned to fly on those hills, racing down the slope and into the trees that lined the bottom that hid the brook where he’d learnt to catch frogs. At the next window, he spied his mother’s gardens; the paths, she’d instructed one time, were laid out accordingly to the astrological map, making the end of each path a point of convergence – it was apparently very good for her potion ingredients that grew there. At the next window, he saw the rose bush where he’d had his first kiss with Pansy on his thirteenth annual midsummer feast. At the next window, he saw the clearing amongst the hedgerow where Aunt Bella executed creatures who disobeyed the cause.

Draco turned his head as if struck, the flash of green light still burning behind his eyes. His walls shivered and his shoulders renewed their pain with vengeance. Fear stroked his spine with tender fingers, while she draped her blanket around his shoulders. He stumbled the rest of the way down the corridor, barrelled into his door heavily, falling gracelessly over the threshold and into the back of the sofa that lay in waiting.

He breathed deeply through his nose; the air in his room held the stale but familiar scent of him, his aftershave, his life. He looked down at his hands that were clutching the back of the sofa with white knuckles. Streaks and patches of coppery stains covered his already filthy hands. He barely recognised them; their diminished state was so opposite to the luxurious upholstery of the sofa that it was jarring. Draco looked around the room. His Slytherin scarf was wrapped around his bedpost; the book he had been reading still lay on the bedside table. The chairs by the fireplace were still arranged close together, facing each other, from the day he’d arrived back at the Manor and had lain across them and drunk himself unconscious in an attempt to forget Dumbledore’s voice. The room was decorated in dark, rich tones of greys and blacks. His mother had said it was masculine for a growing boy but as a man stood amongst his childhood bedroom, he found it too dark, too mournful like a funeral parlour.

His throat constricted as his eyes pricked once again. He drew a shuddering breath in, while Fear cooed lovingly in his ear.

This whole house was a tomb. A funeral home for many.

He pushed himself upright and stumbled around the chair. _Wash it all away._ Draco entered his bathroom with the renewed energy of a swan song and flicked on the shower. Divesting himself of his prison-rags, and without wasting another moment, he stepped into the spacious wet chamber and collapsed under the steaming water. His eyes closed in bliss as the hot water pounded onto his skin, soothing his aching bones. Draco titled his head back, allowing the water to run pure rivulets over his starving scalp. His mind went blank in the ecstasy of the moment. He dropped his head forward, allowing the deluge of water to cascade over his aching back. His eyes tracked the brown water that streamed from him and down the drain. It was constant. Besides the cuts he’d received in the courtroom, he mused that that was a year’s worth of filth being washed away… just like that. He grabbed the nearest bottle of soap and set to work, massaging it into his hair and skin, removing the dirt and stench.

When the last of the lather scrubbed from his raw body, Draco brought his hands up, inspecting his palms and he saw perfectly unblemished skin. They were healed without a trace of where his claws had embedded in them earlier that day.

And that was a thing.

Draco inspected his claws properly for the first time. They hadn't receded all-day; he concluded that it must be a stress response. He ran a tongue over his teeth. The fangs were still there too.

He was a creature.

They had actually tried to hand him over to the executioners.

They had tried to kill him.

Draco gasped in a watery breath, his chest constricting suddenly, the first tear freed itself and joined the water that already ran over his face and Fear grinned a predatory smile.

_I’m a creature._

He gasped another breath as the emotion that had been threatening all day, finally broke his banks.

_I’m a fucking veela._

The sound of the next gasp was lost in the crash of water against granite tiles.

_My mother…_

Narcissa’s tiny unconscious form bundled in a blanket flashed before his eyes, the touch of her papery skin on his fingertips. The white-hot knife cut across his shoulders once more.

_My… nothing._

The hollow space in his chest expanded like a yawning chasm as he fought to suck in another breath. His vision narrowed.

_They wanted to kill me._

Draco fell to his knees, his hands slapping the wet tiles before him. A sob wracking through his torso.

_I’m sorry._

Suddenly, his vision whited-out as the pain in his shoulders exploded, searing through his torso.

It took a moment before the ringing in his ears receded enough for him to hear his hoarse cry echo off the walls around him. He blinked his eyes and shook his head, clearing the white flashes away. The sharp-edged pain had immediately dulled to a throbbing ache that was overlaid with a new awareness of the cold air that slipped between the steam. Draco remained still a moment, panting his shallow breaths, counting his awareness.

He heard movement behind him.

But that wasn’t possible because he was facing the entrance of the sho-

Something heavy slapped the watery floor.

Draco had a sudden awareness of rough granite on sensitive skin and the gentle balm of pooling warm water.

In horror, he looked over his shoulder and hiccupped a sob at the sight.

Splayed out and crushed up against the wall of glass was a huge black sodden wing. Draco checked over his other shoulder and saw the same. Panic rose in his chest and as his heart rate spike, the wings scrabbled un-coordinated, slapping and banging against the confines of the walls.

_Calm_ , Willows had told him all afternoon. _Keep calm._

Draco closed his eyes and occluded, envisioning a frozen tundra, the snow pure and untouched. When his heart slowed slightly, he had the strange realisation that he was experiencing uncomfortable aches from well outside of where his body was. He looked back and saw that the wings were still mangled in the cramped space. Turning forward again, he drew upon the image of the pure snow, and consciously envisioned the wings folded neatly against him.

He pulled. He felt the drag of something to his right, like something getting caught. He looked back and saw that one of the joints was pointed with a spiked point, as black as his talons, and that this spike kept getting caught in the grout between the bricked tiles of the chamber walls. With shaking hands, Draco ducked awkwardly under the wing and lifted it to a different angle. As soon as it was free, the wing slowly folded and settled with the other against his back.

Draco stood on unsteady legs, his trembling fingers reaching out for the wall for balance. He felt, rather than heard, the wings slap out against the walls again, pulling him off balance and crashing him back under the spray of water. He lay there a moment, his chest heaving, relishing in the heat.

“Fuck this.” He growled to himself, pulling himself up slowly, moving with each panicked wing flap, rather than fighting against it. He aggressively thought of the tundra, imposing his will over his frantic heart. Once he was stood, he flicked off the water, and carefully edged across the wet floor and out into the main room of his bathroom, his body growing more accustomed to the new weight distribution.

Grabbing a fluffy towel, Draco wrapped it around his waist and looked in the mirror above his sink. His eyes were bloodshot, making the grey stand out so starkly that they were a shocking sight. His cheekbones were sharp over his concave malnourished face. A hint of white peaked out over his lip. Draco lifted his top lip in a snarl and examined the fangs beneath. Half an inch-long canine and bicuspids, top and bottom, finishing in severe sharp tips. He closed his mouth and observed his face. The features were more pointed than usual; his eyes tighter, his nose slightly longer, his chin slightly pointier. And over his shoulder, framing his head in the reflection of the mirror were two huge folded wings. All of which leant to the overall image being not-quite-human.

He pulled away and ran a hand through his wet knotted hair.

What he wouldn’t give for his wand.

Draco stepped into his bedroom and crossed it, headed straight for the chest-of-draws. Pulling on some joggers, he stepped away and eyed the bed speculatively.

Then his wings.

Draco snorted bitterly and left the room to head back out into the house.

Now that his new appendages were folded snuggly against him, his shoulders no longer ached with the pain that had been bothering him and the soreness of his body had diminished notably, making him surer on his feet as he traversed the winding halls.

Over the hours, Draco had walked through most of the house. And still, his claws, fangs and wings remained. He had tried to calm the adrenaline that ran through his veins, but every time his breath settled, he’d hear the echoed memory of _that_ soulless laugh ring down the corridor. Or the slither of a winding body across wooden floors. Or an anguished scream from the dungeon. By the time the evening sun was glowing through the windows, Draco had made a full circuit back to the main drawing room that he’d avoided his entire journey. It was the last room.

He paused before the closed doors and steeled himself; his heart rate spiked for the hundredth time. As if wary of the pain beyond, Draco gingerly opened both the doors and pushed them open.

The room was silent.

The walls were the same unobtrusive cream. The carpet, the same antique pattern.

The red sky of the evening sun covered the west-facing room in a bloodied tinge.

Draco took one step in and stopped abruptly, the sound of her scream deafening him as it bounced around his skull.

Her.

His.

He careened back, the ghosts of the memory assaulting him. His wings flared wide in threat and a growl rumbled in his chest.

He stopped as suddenly as he started.

She wasn’t here. She wasn’t being attacked. Not anymore. He hadn’t stepped in then and attacking an empty room two years later wasn’t going to make a difference.

Draco reached for the doors, closed them tight locking the room away. He dropped his eyes to the floor in resignation, the hollow hunger in his chest yearning with renewed pain. He spotted the shadow he’d cast and looked over his shoulders at the wings that were still stretched out. They were huge! He ‘guestimated’ about twenty foot from tip-to-tip. He pushed and they shimmered in their stretch. The light from the light candelabras of the hall reflected off of the satiny feathers that lined the curve of the arches, and down each finger of the sections. The wing's structure was reminiscent of a bat's except there were two joints topped with noir horned tips. The lights of the candelabras were apparent through the thin membranes in the sections, that then tapered off into ephemeral trails.

Draco pulled and they slowly folded back into his body. He turned in his spot, taking in the hall he was stood in.

This had been his home. But everywhere he went, he felt the touch of _them._ He was strung out, waiting for a shadow to move, for Aunt Bella to appear or Yaxley, Dolohov, Rodolphus, Rabastan… _him._

_I can’t…_ He swallowed heavily. He was a Malfoy. This was his estate. He had a duty to –

_Fuck this._

His parents had a duty to keep him safe and look how that turned out. No, he didn’t have any duty. Not right now. He set off in a determined march toward the entryway, his heart growing lighter with every step as if he were escaping another prison sentence.

Draco swooped in on the mantle above the floo and thumb the parchment with Blaise’s cramped handwriting on.

_Calm before you floo,_ Willows had said. _How did he-_ Draco shook himself from the thought and occluded hard, again imposing his will upon his own system, forcing it into submission, the image of untouched snow clear in his mind. His racing thoughts slowed, boxing themselves away neatly behind walls. His hammering heart glided to a regular rhythm. The adrenaline that sang in his veins faded away. After some time, he felt a pinch at his back. Draco’s eyes fluttered open to see his rounded fingertips clutching the parchment. He looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but empty space. _I need to work this out properly at some point,_ he thought as he reached for the pot of powder, pinched a healthy handful, and stepped into the green flames.

*

**_18:32 pm, 10 th of September, 1999 - Penthouse, Hyde Park Gardens, London UK._ **

****

Pansy flicked her tongue out to wet her thumb, her eyes scanning the spread of the Vogue magazine she held before her. She made a mental note to pop to Selfridges the next day after she visited Kleamono Bar on Oxford Street. She wasn’t hopeful that it would come to anything with regard to Thyrra’s whereabouts. She going more out of due diligence until the Mice returned with intel she could actually use. But a group of men, known to frequent Kleamono were sat front and centre of Thyrra’s last dance, so it was worth a look.

She sighed in dismay at Vogue’s style tips for autumn, _how dreadfully dull. Emanating fall colour in cable knit, what will they think of next._

She added to the mental note to grab winter coats for the kids now that the weather was turning.

And socks.

Pansy reached out with her perfectly manicured hand and picked up the china cup. She brought it to her lips to sip –

The fireplace in front of her bloomed green flames and a half-naked man fell to the floor.

Bending the pages aside, Pansy peered around the magazine and saw a head of long messy platinum hair flick up and lock eyes with her. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop the unmitigated joy from spreading across her face.

Instead, Pansy sniffed delicately and sipped from her teacup that was frozen in place. She lifted an arched brow at Draco and allowing herself a small smile she spoke.

“Welcome home dear, would you like some tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am nervously hiding behind my laptop. Let me know your thoughts and theories, kudos is love. 
> 
> IG - https://www.instagram.com/annavek94.art/  
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> Tumblr - https://annavek94.tumblr.com/


	8. T’es dans la merde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day chickadees. Oh your feedback on the previous chapter had me grinning from ear to ear. I cannot tell you the relief I felt. As for this chapter, finally, here is the third perspective that I promised in chapter 5. I have been looking forward to this scene since the very inception of the story. 
> 
> Triggers - gore/lots of blood/panic and anxiety symptoms - I don't think there's anything else, but if you see anything let me know!
> 
> Any and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

**_Military tactics are like unto water; for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards. So in war, the way is to avoid what is strong and to strike at what is weak. Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing. Therefore, just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are no constant conditions. He who can modify his tactics in relation to his opponent and thereby succeed in winning, may be called a heaven-born captain._ **

**_The five elements (water, fire, wood, metal, earth) are not always equally predominant; the four seasons make way for eachother in turn. There are short days and long; the moon has its periods of waning and waxing._ **

_\- Sun Tzu, The Art of War_

**Chapter 8 – T’es dans la merde**

* * *

* * *

**_11:05 am, 10 th of September, 1999 – The breakfast room, The Craigdarroch Inn, Loch Ness, Inverness, Scottish Highlands, Scotland, UK._ **

_Now that the restoration of Diagon Alley has finally been completed and the Hogwarts project all-but finished, this reporter took the streets to be amongst her people. To hear your voices. Your stories. Your worries and woes and oh boy! You did not disappoint! Readers, I heard you. Your uncertainty in these trying times is palpable. While the Ministry is focused internally, scooping out the toxic infection that they knowingly left to fester right under their noses for decades, they’ve left the rest of us adrift - still broken, still shell-shocked, still grieving._

_Well, my dear readers, I will always put your needs first. Many of you spoke of your concerns, that there were death eaters still at large. That the government were not telling us everything. That they were keeping us in the dark as to the true state of affairs._

_I can tell you readers it is far worse than we feared._

_And the hypocrisy of it all will leave you as breathless as it left me._

Ron sipped from his coffee cup and straightened the newspaper, eyes eagerly skimming the words. The tell-tale signs of warm anger started to burn beneath his sternum. 

_One of my sources informed me of an emergency hearing relating to the dashing fallen prince that we just love to hate – Draco Malfoy, the heir apparent to the Malfoy estate. Draco Malfoy received his sentence for his crimes as Death-Eater last July, which is expected to end in July, 2000. This reporter took it upon herself for you, my dear readers, who so trustingly placed your worries and fears in my caring hands, I had to find out what the Ministry would not tell you. I went undercover, deep behind enemy lines, to check if our beloved bad boy was still serving his penance at Azkaban and why would the Ministry be holding a hearing this early before his release back into society._

_This reporter can confirm dear readers, that Death-Eater Draco Malfoy will be attending an emergency hearing later today (1pm on the 10 th of September) at the Ministry of Magic courtrooms. _

_But what, I hear you cry, could possibly warrant such an exceptional event?_

“Money,” Ron scoffed, shoving a scone slathered in strawberry jam into his mouth.

_Well dear readers, this reporter witnessed first-hand that the once revered, pureblood aristocrat Draco Malfoy is no longer human and has undergone a creature inheritance._

_And you know what that means readers?_

_The Malfoy blood isn’t as pure as we were led to beli-_

Ron coughed, choking as he sharply inhaled his half-chewed scone. He pounded his fist to his chest and grasped for the coffee mug, eagerly downing the contents. When it was finished, he took a deep, clear breath and blinked the moisture that had accumulated in the corner of his eyes away.

“What happened here?” Hannah’s melodic voice asked as she sat in the chair opposite him, reaching for the cafeteire and pouring herself a black coffee. Ron gulped down some air as he examined the remnants of the scone he had spluttered onto the table surface.

“Scourgify,” Ron muttered with a dismissive flick of his wand. He shunted the paper at Hannah and reached for another scone. Whilst she read the front-page article, delicately sipping her drink, Ron aggressively ladened another pastry with a dangerous level of cream and jam before ramming it into his mouth.

“Oh no!” Hannah bemoaned sorrowfully, her brow creasing with sympathy.

“Mmph, Cn oo belif di dit mm-”

Hannah peered at him over the top of the newspaper, her brow slowly lifting.

“I can’t understand a word you’re saying, swallow,” she chided.

Ron rolled his eyes and worked his jaw around the claggy dry pastry, cream and jam coating his throat in a saccharine film. He gulped a mouthful of coffee to wash it all down, much to Hannah’s evident disgust.

“I said, can you believe that this fucker has the fucking nerve to be a twat for our entire school life, and he’s a fucking creature! Fucking wanker, I sw-”

“Ron, keep it down other people are trying to have breakfast in peace,” Hannah sighed tiredly offering a small smile to the elderly couple across the way who were looking over with identically put-out expressions.

“Sorry,” Ron grumbled in their vague direction, “but still Han, can you bel-”

“I feel sorry for him.”

The rampant irate voice in Ron’s head screeched to a stop. He froze mid-gesture and blinked with rounded eyes at Hannah, who busied herself applying jam to her scone with precision.

The third chair pulled out from the table and Daphne Greengrass lowered herself demurely into the seat, crossing her ankles under the table, her soft auburn waves pulled over one shoulder.

“Good morning,” she announced in her clipped received pronunciation while she reached for the cafetiere.

“Mornin’, sleep well?” Hannah asked brightly.

Ron still hadn’t moved.

“Awful, I kept waking from horrid dreams in which we kept getting killed. I tell you,” Daphne said conversationally, taking a brief sip from her mug. “I don’t know whether I should be impressed or horrified at the variety of ways in which my subconscious can pull a spine from a torso.” Her nose scrunched in dismay.

“Oh no, that’s awful. You okay?” Hannah leant forward concerned.

Ron still hadn’t moved.

“I’m quite well darling, they were just stress dreams about today I imagine. Nothing to worry about, just a little peaky. I’ll need an IV bag of caffeine with me to get me through this horrid day and a week or two in Mauritius once this is all over and I’ll be right as rain,” Daphne offered a charming smile to Hannah as she reached for a scone. “Whatever is wrong with Weasley though? It’s not even noon and he looks like he’s already having a conniption,” she commented as if his behaviour was completely normal.

Which is was, but Ron would never acquiesce the point.

Hearing his name brought him screeching back into the conversation.

“How can you feel sorry for him?!” He hissed. “Just because he’s all fluffy now doesn’t change the fact that he is still a monstrous fucking weasel.”

Hannah sighed and gave Ron a look of disappointment.

“I’m sorry, to whom are you referring to?” Daphne interrupted, taking a delicate nibble of her pastry and dabbing away the jam from her lip.

“Y’ere, read this lass,” Hannah said, handing her the paper. “And don’t be so closed-minded Ron. Any sort of inheritance is a traumatic event, it can be exceedingly painful, and I doubt very much he ‘as the adequate medical treatment. On top o’ that,” she said, her voice growing sterner as she held up a hand to physically ward off Ron’s interruption, “his legal standing has changed entirely. I can imagine for someone in his precarious position, this is goin’ to be terrifying for him,” she finished as if berating a child. “So while I am not Draco Malfoy’s biggest fan, he is still another bein’ on this planet and causing pain and misery for the sake o’ it solves nothing. So yes, course I feel sorry for him because I have a heart. Now grow up and eat your food.” Her eyes flashed dangerously as a lock of blonde hair fell down into her face.

Ron closed his mouth from where it had fallen open and looked down at his plate, chastened but feeling no less indignant about the entire situation. _Bloody women._

“Fuck,” Daphne said quietly, bringing her hand to her downturned mouth.

“I’ve been trying to get you to swear for a year Greengrass and you waste it on this?” Ron whined.

“Quiet!” Hannah snapped at him before she turned to the sorrowful beauty. “Are you still friends with him? Is there anythin’ we can do?” She asked tentatively.

Ron’s squawk of outrage was ignored.

“Of course we are still friends, we grew up together. I need to owl Pans,” Daphne said, her eyes re-reading the article. “I knew I had a bad feeling about today,” she said more to herself.

“Offer my services to Parkinson,” Hannah replied, a kind smile on her face.

“You both can’t be serious!” Ron exclaimed, sitting back in his chair with a look of disbelief on his face.

Daphne and Hannah were an exercise in opposites and Ron had mused for many a moment on this fact. Where Daphne was pale, brown-eyed and auburn, Hannah was blonde, blue-eyed and tanned. Where Daphne was all cheekbones and a jawline that wouldn’t quit, Hannah was rounded cheeks and soft chin. Where Daphne was cold, speaking in the clipped English accent with the soft-palette of the aristocrats, Hannah was warm and lyrical, with the yawning vowels of her Northern accent. Where Daphne was stand-offish and squeamish at the mud on her heels, Hannah was in wellies laughing at her.

Where Daphne said buns, Hannah said baps.

But Ron never truly knew fear until he witnessed them join forces against him.

Like they were doing at that moment.

The two women levelled him with piercing looks, lips thinning in repressed aggression.

But Ron had faced worse, he coul-

“And tell Parkinson that Weasley offers ‘is help too,” Hannah added sternly, her blue eyes pinning Ron to his seat. He opened his mouth and drew breath to power his rebuttal when…

“Of course, such a good idea. One of the golden trio supporting him! They will be so thankful,” Daphne replied, her features sharpening under her Machiavellian words. Ron frowned, his mouth hanging useless.

“It’s not a worry, _course_ we will do _everythin’_ we can, won’t we Ron,” Hannah said pointedly, “because _we’re_ not in school _anymore.”_ Her brow lifted gravely.

Ron’s eyes bounced between the two women, flabbergasted.

“Have you both gone insane? It’s not about being in bloody school! He’s a bloody death eater! Have you forgotten that small war we were part of? Or did those years pass you by?” His voice rose dramatically, his brows high in incredulity.

“We have not, and you’ll do well to discontinue this patronising tone Weasley,” Daphne snapped. “I’m going to owl Pans before we head out. I’d be ever so grateful if you were done with your tantrum by the then please?” She rose from her seat, collecting her coffee to take with her and looking pointedly at Ron as she went.

As her steps faded away, Ron glowered into his coffee mug, deep in thought. They were all stressed, he knew that. It had been a manic couple of days. Since the moment Hannah had pulled him from his bed and brought him to the prospective Quidditch grounds to see the remnants of the battle between the yeti and centaur, it had been none stop. Ron had had to recall the entire team to Inverness, their base while they had been location scouting in Scotland. Mr and Mrs McNealy ran The Craigdarroch Inn; an elderly couple, with white curly hair and warm welcoming smiles. Craigdarroch estate had been in the McNealy family for nearly a century, and the homely witch and wizard were the epicentre of the bustling magical community that lived by Loch Ness. They were more than happy to accommodate Ron’s team, blocking off the conservatory that provided a breath-taking panoramic view of the loch and free tea and coffee - Ron had promised them free tickets in gratitude.

While the team had been locked away, brainstorming ideas of how to resolve the situation, the yeti and centaur had had a further two skirmishes. The area in which they were fighting, was just north of the loch. By the end of the first day, the team had been scratching their heads at the lack of ideas and leaning toward letting to the two races get on with it until it fizzled out. Deadlines would just have to be pushed. Except one of the tributaries that fed Loch Ness ran right through the battleground, and so when the team had sat down to eat breakfast the day before, Martin Selwyn who worked at DMGS with Ron had given a startled cry in horror and pointed to the Loch. In the shining morning sun, the blue-grey waters were turning a coppery-brown that was slowly spreading from the north corner across the loch. Ron had watched the water glint ominously in the cold September light before sending off the relevant people to inform the Ministry. By midday, his team had quadrupled in size. Daphne’s team had spent the day corralling and obliviating the muggle population of Loch Ness to then sending them all on surprise holidays elsewhere. They had worked tirelessly well into the night to set up anti-muggle warding around the entirety of the Loch Ness and another perimeter spanning fifty miles around the battle site. Hannah’s team made up the majority of the new team and had predominantly been dealing with the magical creatures that resided within the loch. The Merpeople had threatened an uprising at the insult of having their waters polluted by Earthen beings; meanwhile, the influx of blood had sent the pair of Nagas, who were gentle herbivores that had lived in the lake for the better half of a century, into an outraged frenzy upsetting the Ashrays, usually nocturnal creatures for good reason, who then proceeded to have a mass evacuation from the loch. The result being, the sight of hundreds of ghostly apparitions rising from the water, only to turn into gelatinous puddles on the banks once their ethereal bodies hit the sunlight. 

It had taken thirty people nearly two hours to push bank the initial mass exodus into the water, now a team of ten were on rotation, pushing back those who were still trying to flee.

The previous evening, the entire team – seventy-three people, all housed by Mr and Mrs McNealy – had gathered in the conservatory for a meeting. It was well understood by everybody present, that the situation had become untenable with the centaurs and yeti showing no sign of halting their disputes and the ecosystem of Loch Ness very much at risk because of it.

It was decided that drastic action had to be taken.

After the discovery of the loch, they had sent a couple of envoys to treaty with both sides of the conflict, in an attempt to broker peace. The centaurs hadn’t been receptive to the idea but had eventually reluctantly agreed to allow someone who followed _their_ way to talk to them. The yeti meanwhile, agreed to talk to the _leaders_ of the group only.

Thus, Daphne and Heather, Hannah’s second, were going to attempt to talk to centaurs, while Hannah and Ron were going to try and talk to the Yeti's Salun (their leader, Ron had been promptly informed before he could crack a wise comment). Whilst a third team was being dispatched to follow the tributary of the hundreds of miles it spanned, to see if there were any other affected areas. Though neither Daphne nor Heather were practitioners of Divination, Daphne held a touch of sight and had been raised on the old traditional ways, while Heather was a natural dab-hand at tarot and palmistry. This left Ron and Hannah, the most senior in the hierarchy to deal with the yeti.

The whole thing had been Hannah’s idea. Hannah, who thought that Draco Fucking Malfoy, the fluffy creature that he was, deserved sympathy. On the one hand, Ron had to admire the woman. She was fearless. On the other, Ron thought her fearlessness was a symptom of her insanity, rather than a noble characteristic. Like the Naga! She had cooed softly at their angry growling faces, their sharp teeth bigger than her entire person, their serpentine bodies disappearing under the murky water only for their tails to splash fifty foot away.

_Let’s just talk the yeti._ _They’ll listen to us. It’ll be fine. No Ron stop being dramatic, they won’t eat us._

He scoffed and took another sip of his coffee. _Mad. Completely mad. Why are all the women in my life bonkers?_ He had barely slept as it was over the past couple of days. Between running the war room and pulling shifts down on the shore, managing the new arrivals, fending off his boss and trying to keep the whole thing as confidential as possible (the last thing he needed was the media to find out), he felt the exhaustion seep down into his bones. He marvelled for a moment, how his goal to have a quiet life and decent Quidditch had resulted in him trying to maintain the Scottish Magical ecosystem. He wasn’t qualified for this. Sure he could run a war room better than anybody there, he was a natural strategist after all, but this entire situation had spun so quickly out of control that it was a case of damage control and all hands on board. And when this was resolved quickly and peacefully, him and his rag-tag team of comprising largely of accountants, researchers and paper-pushers, would be exalted for their monumental feat.

“Have you stopped being a prick?” Hannah inquired mildly, her eyes glued to the Society pages of the paper.

“Have you stopped thinking that all creatures great, small and death-eatery are cute and cuddly?” Ron snapped back, barely hiding the wince at his poorly formed retort.

Hannah gave him an exasperated tired look over the top of the paper before she grabbed her coffee mug and drained the dregs. She stood, folding the paper and swept her travel cloak over her shoulder in one swoop.

“Where you going?” Ron said, confusion evident on his features.

Hannah paused her actions and cast him a beseeching glance as she fastened her thick forest green cloak shut.

Seconds tick by before –

“Oh! Right, yes. Is it really time to go?” Ron exclaimed his heart sinking at the realisation as he gathered his wand and papers from the table and threw his cloak on haphazardly. He hurried along to catch up with Hannah, juggling the various items as he made his way through the lobby and out the front door. He tripped down the final step, nearly dropping all the papers, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The sun was bright in the cloudless azure sky, a gentle breeze rolled through, carrying the open scent of clean air and freshly cut grass. Around them, the colourful flowers of Mr McNealey’s flowerbeds swayed gently, the hanging willow that stood sentry on the path to the loch brush its hanging leaves lovingly over the manicured lawn.

“You are an utter disaster sometimes Weasley,” said Daphne as she reached over and plucked the messy pile of papers from his arms, freeing them from their burden.

“I am not, it’s all by design,” he sniffed proudly, righting his cloak and fastening the collar again the Scottish chill.

“Of course dear,” Hannah clucked soothingly in the same voice she used to barter with the Merpeople. Ron scowled at her as she passed him by but she had already turned to the gathered teams who were awaiting their orders.

He tuned her out and focused on his shaking fingers that fumbled on the cloak ties. He huffed a quick frustrated breath and tried again, and again the ties slipped from between his jittery fingers. _Everything’s going to be fine._ He swallowed and re-focused on the ties. _You’ve done this before._ His heart skipped a beat. _Everything’s going to be fine._

He dropped the ties again.

Before he could pick them back up, perfectly manicured nails appeared in his vision. He looked up into Daphne’s passive masked face. It had taken him a while to become comfortable in her presence when they’d first started working together. He complained for months that she was a cold ice bitch pureblood queen with no personality. Then one night, they had gotten into an argument over Quidditch of all things, and Ron had realised that the calm emotionless exterior that she had been wearing was a mask to cover her discomfort. Since that day, the mask only came out when she was stressed in some way, and Ron had grown to like the quirky, well-spoken weirdo underneath.

But the mask was in place now.

She quickly fastened the ties and met his eyes. They held a look for a moment, assessing whether the other was sound before she moved back with a nod.

“You’ll be fine,” Ron said out of the side his mouth to her, not wanting to draw the attention of the subordinates. He hesitated a moment and watched as the gathered teams took notes of their orders. “I…” He swiped a hand over his jaw, bristling the growth that had been left unchecked for a couple of days. “I’m sure Malfoy will be fine too.” He rolled his shoulders as if to rid himself of disgust.

Daphne remained silent until the groups started to disperse. Then Ron felt her smaller hand take hold of his and gently squeeze in comfort before she moved away to greet Heather.

Ron blew out a short breath that puffed his cheeks, bound and shrunk down the stack of papers that Daphne had organised and left on the wall and pocketed them, before moving to join Hannah, his still trembling fingers tucked securely in his cloak.

“All good?” He asked when he reached her.

“Aye, Selwyn’s taken lead on the team to head up the tributary. He's taken about thirty with him. I’ve got Philip overseeing Ashray rotation and Felicity with a small team to maintain the wards, and provide back-up with the loch,” she said, her eyes critical as she watched the mass of people divide into their respective allocations. The air shifted beside Ron as Daphne and Heather joined them.

“Ready?” Heather squeaked in her high-pitched voice. It had taken Ron a while to acclimatise to the tiny woman, but he now no longer winced every time she laughed and he considered that a victory.

Hannah and he nodded their confirmation. Ron held out his hand and felt Daphne’s grasp his in turn. With a final parting look to Hannah, who readied herself to side-along Heather, he apparated them away from the safe, idyllic lawns of the inn.

The **crack** boomed loudly in the open air, high up on the hilltop. Ron looked over at the second **crack** as Hannah and Daphne appeared. Neither Daphne nor Heather had seen the field yet and both started, horror dawning on their faces as they took in the scene below. The sun that had been right in Hannah stepped over to him and nudged his elbow to get his attention. He looked down at her and saw her gesture with the tilt of her chin to the west. He swung his head around and looked down the valley of the field. The light of the high sun was almost gone; the smoke from multiple pyres that burned a heinous red glow in the gloom, gathered in the sky like a nuclear winter. For as far Ron could see, the sky was black with soot and dust. The air hung oppressively around them. The cloying tang of metal and blood seasoned the heavy scent of ash and burnt flesh. Hannah covered her mouth and nose in a scarf she wrapped tightly around her neck.

Ron rolled his shoulders and took an unsteady breath.

“Let’s get this over with. Remember, if it turns south, get out of there first. You can send a patronus just as easily when you’re safe back at the inn. Got it?” He commanded to Daphne and Heather who nodded their assent.

“You’ll want to follow this path when you reach that outcrop of there, see it?” She gestured with an outstretched arm and a tilt of her body. “Cast ‘banefinner’ with a clockwise twist like you’re lockin’ a key, alright?” She motioned the movement with her wand. “Green lights will appear in front of you, they’ll lead you to the centaur basecamp.”

“Very well, take care you two,” said Daphne, righting her cloak in a nervous gesture.

“Yeah, see you for dinner! The McNealy’s are doing a hog roast this evening!” Heather’s muffled voice squeaked, her eyes bright with joy.

“Great, now I’m hungry.” Ron moaned, turning away from them with a wave. Hannah swatted him on the arm as she fell into stride with him.

“You’ve just eaten a dozen scones! How can you still be hungry?”

“I’m a growing boy!” Ron squawked offended and Hannah scoffed and rolled her eyes at his antics.

They walked in silence for a while, their strides lengthy down the mossy incline. Ron thanked the Gods that he’d worn his sturdy leather boots as they sunk into the boggy banks with each step and with every **squelch** , dark liquid licked the tops of his feet. The skirmish fields were silent, barren of any movement whatsoever.

“Bannefinner,” Hannah muttered and a blue glow illuminated before them and disappeared as it wound its way into the murkiness of the smoke. The envoys had laid the paths of entry the day before, following the guidance of each of the camps. Ron was only half convinced that sticking to the paths would keep them alive; he wanted to get out of no-man’s-land quickly before someone mistook them for an enemy and he ended up with a spear in his gut.

Or worse.

Ron and Hannah walked in silence, the only sound was their boots **squelching** in the sodden earth. The smoke was so thick Ron could barely see more than a couple of metres ahead of him. After that, it was a swirling wall of grey and black, accented with red and orange glows of pyres in the distance. A tall shadow loomed suddenly from the shadows and Ron jumped back, flinging an arm out to protect Hannah.

The shape didn’t move and Ron noticed it was strangely thin with a bulbous top. Hannah tapped the arm he still held before her and ducked under it, approaching the thing.

“Hannah what are you doing!” Ron hissed.

She ignored him and continued forward, the smoke closing in behind her, threatening to swallow her whole. Ron jolted into action and marched after her, coming to an abrupt halt before a tall log that was stuck into the earth like a pillar. Ron’s eyes travelled up its shaft and craned his neck back to see what was making the bulbous shape at the top. The air shifted, clearing the smoke momentarily, but long enough for Ron to look into the lifeless eyes of the bloodied head that with pierced with the tip of the log. He wrenched back, pulling Hannah with him. He strode with determination along the blue path, Hannah hurrying along beside him, keen to put distance between them and the pillar. Except the further they went, the more pillars began to appear from the depths of the smoke. He glanced over his shoulder down at Hannah, whose mouth was drawn tightly in dismay.

“Please tell me you still believe that we won’t be eaten,” Ron muttered quietly from the side of his mouth.

Hannah’s brow creased as she looked up at him. “Of course I do; I just don’t understand why this has happened. All year, all the clashes that we’ve seen. They’ve were gettin’ worse and more frequent, but this is just the cherry on the cake. I mean, yeti,” she wet her lips nervously and eyed the smoke, “there’s so little literature on them ‘cause they’re so elusive. That bein’ said, both centaurs and yeti are such peaceful creatures,” Ron snorted and raised an eyebrow at her, “they are peaceful!” Hannah defended earnestly. “They’re fierce warriors, but neither would go out o’ their way to start a fight. Which makes this whole situation a hundred times weirder. Neither species are native to this area. It’s not a known migratory path. And now they’re warrin’. And I just don’t understand it.” She frowned at the ground.

“Well I guess we’re about to find out,” Ron intoned darkly.

From the dark swirling abyss, a structure emerged, taking shape the closer they got. It was a crudely crafted gate towering twenty-odd foot above them, the same spiked pillars formed walls that spread in both directions either side of the gate. Ron and Hannah came to a stop, unsure of how to proceed. Movement caught the corner of Ron’s eye and he snapped his head to the left. He could have sworn he saw something, but as the smoke remained still he chalked it up to a trick of the light. He felt Hannah step closer to him.

Suddenly the gate started to levitate upwards, opening the entryway to a bridge. Ron and Hannah shared a look before stepping through. Their footsteps echoed ominously on the boards as they started to cross it. Ron peered over the side to see a bubbling moat of an oily tar-like substance. His face grimaced in disgust as a particularly large bubble belched an old musky smell right up his nose. He wretched slightly and felt Hannah pull him away from the edge. She gave him a stern look before she went to stand before a second gate. Ron joined her, wiping a hand under his nose, trying to rid the smell from his sinuses. A moment later, the second gate levitated and Hannah and Ron shared an apprehensive glance before they stepped through.

They were immediately met with a long corridor, the walls made from stone. Torches flared to life as they passed, lighting the passage forward. Ahead of them, they could see an empty entranceway that looked to open out on to a courtyard. Ron swallowed nervously and wiped his clammy palms against his cloak. Suddenly, the entryway was filled with a twisted silhouette. It was roughly seven-foot-tall by Ron’s guess, but the fractured lines of antlers on its head, made the shape seem taller. It was slender and lent nonchalantly against a staff with another gnarled tip. As they neared, Ron could make out the coloured textures of the multiple tabards that the creature wore over its lithe body. Its large feet were bare, its lower calves were covered in matted grey fur mixed with mud. It wore leather straps around its ankles, and as the creature shifted, the glint of metal on the straps flashed in the firelight of the torches. The long body of the creature was wrapped in many layers of varying shades of blue and yellow, all splattered with mud and other darkened stains. Its neck was swathed in thick cowl scarves, the long drapes of material dangled carelessly from its narrow shoulders. Its long sinewy arms were covered in rough-looking grey fur, that darkened to a midnight black the closer to the hand it got. Its face was partially shadowed by a blue pointed shroud that hung low over its forehead; Ron was only able to discern blackened stripes matting the grey fur on the creature’s cheeks and the unblinking gaze of two amber glowing eyes.

_I have been lied to. Yeti do not look like that in books!_

Hannah and Ron stopped before the yeti, who assessed them silently.

“Uh…” Ron croaked, his heart hammering in his throat as he looked up into the fathomless burning eyes. “We’re uh here to spe-”

The yeti slammed the tip of his staff against the ground, spun on his heel and began to prowl away.

Ron turned to Hannah who was watching the retreating figure with barely contained glee.

“What now?” Ron said, confused and keenly feeling out of his element.

“We follow him,” Hannah whispered excitedly, before setting off into the courtyard.

_Just once I’d like a quiet year. Just once._

Ron took off after the blonde, quickly catching up with her short steps. The yeti led them through the encampment. They passed row upon row of billowing tent structures, warmed by roaring fires. Glowing eyes watched quietly from shadowed corners as they passed. Tall creatures with long limbs and sharp claws came to their tent openings or paused the skinning of rabbits or the sharpening of their knives to observe their passing through. Hannah walked with a bounce in her step, her blonde hair bouncing freely, her blue eyes wide with wonder. Ron flexed his wrist where his wand was holstered, his fingers itching to wrap around it. He felt the pressure of dozens of eyes prickle over his skin, his wet footsteps deafening in the oppressively quiet area.

Finally, the yeti brought them to a particularly wide tent. Unlike the rest, its flaps were fastened closed. The yeti deftly undid the bottom rungs and stood aside holding it open with just enough room for the pair to duck through. Hannah ploughed ahead and disappeared into the darkness. Ron cast a final look behind him and saw the walkway that they had just come down full of a growing crowd in their assorted garbs, watching silently.

_We’re gonna die._

Turning back, Ron gulped and ducked through the flap.

Once inside, he felt the **thwump** of the flap falling shut behind him. He stood and was immediately overwhelmed by the dewy, syrupy smoke that was so pungent, it made him sneeze. He looked around and in the low light, he saw Hannah lowering herself onto a fur rug. Opposite her, across a smoking cauldron that was dug into the floor, sat a smaller yeti.

Well, smaller than the ones Ron had seen thus far anyway.

Its black fur held a sheen of blue in the firelight and Ron watched as its narrow fur-covered hands tore some herbs into the cauldron. Cautiously, he lowered himself onto the rug beside Hannah. This yeti was adorned in more leather tassels than the others had been; the brown material was twined around both forearms right up to the shoulders, and similarly with the legs too. The black shroud of the yeti’s various wrapped material, hung loosely over its shoulders, revealing an uncanny face. The eyes glowed a light blue in amongst the black sclera, the bridge of the nose was short and flat and ended in a button similar to that of a kneezle. The mouth was wide and set far down on the thin face. Under the fur that covered every inch of its body, Ron saw the arresting angles of its cheekbones, high on its cheeks, lending to the athletic physic of the creature. Unlike that other yeti, this one had white paint marking strange patterns over its cheeks, its neck down onto its chest and onto its arm and legs.

Ron watched in a strange type of awe as the yeti reached for the bottle beside it and uncorked it, handling the cork delicately between its long claws, and tipped the contents into the cauldron. A billow of purple smoke rose from within and the sound of hissing bubbles filled the silent tent.

Ron jumped at the sound of the tent flap opening behind him and he whipped around to see a huge grey yeti duck in, cradling its thick arm with care. Hannah gasped quietly as it came closer and the blood that matted its fur became visible. The black yeti reached for a ladle, spooned some of the contents into a bowl and handed it to the injured one. The grey yeti made a chuffing noise with chirruping accents, bowed its head toward the black one and turned to leave.

Once more, silence reigned throughout the tent.

Ron shifted his weight, settling himself into a more comfortable position on the fur rug.

The yeti wiped its hands on a rag and clicked its fingers. Bottles floated down from the shelves that lined the tent walls and began to fill themselves with the contents of the cauldron. Meanwhile, the yeti got to its feet with nimble grace, padded noiselessly to a stack of drawers and began pulling ingredients from within.

Satisfied, it came back to the cauldron that was now struggling to offer the next bottle anymore liquid. The yeti made a low chuffing sound and the rest of the bottles retreated back to the shelves. The full ones were now corking themselves and lining up neatly on a workbench to Ron’s right. The yeti waved its hand over the cauldron and with another snap of its fingers, the insides were sparkling clean once more. It reached over, its muscles straining as it lifted a pail of water and poured a steady hissing stream into the heated basin. The air in the tent filled with a warm moisture, coating the inside of Ron’s mouth with its herbal taste. The yeti resumed its seat and began adding herbs to the now happily bubbling liquid.

“Your language is not nice,” the yeti rasped. Its dual voice was hypnotic with a high melodic pitch layered over a monotonous growling bass. “Your words are unnecessary.”

Ron cast a quick worried glance to Hannah who looked as lost as he felt.

“The only other language I can speak is Drow, and I’m not fluent, but we can try that if it’s easier for you?” Hannah edged, glancing at Ron in askance.

 _Drow?_ He mouthed at her.

She shrugged and raised her eyebrows in the universal ‘what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?’ symbol.

The yeti snorted, a chuckle deep in its throat. “I would speak your language than theirs,” it rumbled, its claws shredding a large palm leaf.

“Very well then,” Hannah said, drawing herself up in business. “I am Hannah, this is Ron, thank you for allowin' us to come speak with you.”

The yeti continued to shred the leave, its glowing blue eyes watching them with a speculative air.

“I am Kunchen,” the yeti said, sprinkling the shredded remains into the cauldron. “I am Salun. Your brethren spoke of wanting an end to the fighting.”

“That’s right,” Ron nodded seriously.

“We’re here to offer our help in ceasin’ the conflict, to avoid any more loss o' life,” said Hannah.

Kunchen snapped its jaw, its teeth gnashing loudly over the bubbling cauldron.

“There is no life lost.”

Ron cocked his head in confusion. “What do you call the heads on the spikes out front then?”

“ _Ron!_ ” Hannah hissed.

Kunchen turned its gaze to Ron placidly and said, “a warning.”

Ron remained still, eyes unblinking as he stared into the glowing blue. If he looked away first he’d be showing weakness and so even as the hair on the back of his neck stood at the sinister words, he attempted to stare down the enigmatic creature before him.

“Perhaps,” Hannah edged with only a small amount of unease in her voice, “you could tell us why you’re warring with them?”

A low sound resonated from deep within Kunchen’s chest as it tore its gaze away from Ron, who sagged minutely as he subtly let out the breath he was holding.

“We fight because we must,” Kunchen’s voice was barely a whispering husk. Its long arm slowly reached to the side and plucked a pot from the pile of ingredients. With a distant look in its eyes, Kunchen poured a liberal helping of orange powder onto the palm of its free hand before setting the jar to the side.

“Forgive me, but why must you?” Hannah said confusion etched on to her pretty features.

Kunchen casually plucked a pinch of the powder and haphazardly tossed it into the cauldron. A belch of noxious green gas rose from within. Ron and Hannah leaned back, their faces an equal measure of displeasure at the smell that gave Ron the visceral taste of candied carrots and boiled gammon.

_Or the smell of infection and burning flesh._

He swallowed thickly, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he fought the wave of nausea that rolled through his body.

“You do not know much of our kind,” Kunchen said in its hypnotic dual voice. “For many of your centuries, we were healers to your kind. Our lands, the cold tops of mountains. We taught our ways to your monks, who continued to spread the practice. Those to the east called us Shamans. Those to the west called us Witch-Doctors. The teaching changes with the magic of the land, but it is all the same. We heal but blood and bone. We heal from the strength of the land. We breath with Gaia.” It flicked another spray of the orange powder. The arch of dust shimmered in the low firelight before it was consumed by the bubbling cauldron. Another plume of smoke billowed into the tent, adding to the already stifling atmosphere.

“We are earthern guardians. In turn, the magic that flows through all things guide us.” It threw another pinch, except this time the arch caught fire midway through the air. The instant flash of bowed flame hissed as it was extinguished in the liquid. “It is everything,” it said, lifting arm to gesture up and around the smokey air, “the magic. It flows through and around you. Through me, into the floor beneath our feet to the skies and stars beyond. And when the life in us ends, our magic returns to the earth and to the stars only to be used elsewhere.”

Ron glanced at Hannah from the corner of his eye and saw that she was rapt with Kunchen’s words. He had heard similar teachings from when his mother had spoken of the old way of the Sacred Twenty-Eight when he was younger. A sense of unease crept up his spine hearing the echo of the words now.

“We are here because we are meant to be,” Kunchen threw the last of the powder into the cauldron. Again, it ignited into a brilliant cyan flame before fizzling out on the bubbling surface.

And again, Ron swallowed the wretch that rose in his throat.

“We are here because it was foreseen that many of our kind would fall to the hands of the centaur,” said Kunchen gravely. “We do not wish to fight - all life is sacred. But we will fight to protect our kind.” It reached to the side and picked up a large bunch of dried herbs. Carefully, it began dropping their leaves into the cauldron, perfuming the air with a heady, musky scent over the noxious saccharine cloud that clung to Ron’s stomach. Hannah frowned as she processed the words.

“Are you originally from these parts?” she asked, her head tilted in curiosity.

Slowly, Kunchen shook its head, sprinkling more dried herbs. “No, we have travelled over many lands and seas to be here for this day of reckoning between our kinds.”

Ron frowned. He felt the unmistakable feeling that he was missing something. He cleared his throat and glanced quickly at Hannah.

“Uh,” his mouth made a noise before his brain gave it permission to do so. Two sets of blue eyes turned expectantly towards him. One curious and familiar, the other omniscient and alien.

“So you were um, far away, and you saw that these centaurs were going to attack you? So you came _here_ ,” he pointed to the ground, “to where the centaur are - away from where you were and where the centaur weren’t - because you saw in a premonition or whatever, that the centaur were going to kill you?” Ron’s voice trailed up high in uncertainty as he finished his assessment. Hannah’s mouth tightened and she turned expectantly to Kunchen.

“That is correct, yes,” Kunchen agreed, setting the bunch of dried herbs aside and replacing it with a bunch of fresh herbs.

Silence permeated the tent as Ron sat, utterly confused by the logic. “Surely then you should just leave.”

“ _Ron!_ ” Hannah hissed,

“I’m not meaning anything by it, like stay if you want an’ all. But y’know, if you want to protect your people from the centaurs then it seems to me like you should just,” he searched around for a way to phrase what he was trying to say, but the words escaped him. “You should just leave,” he finished with a helpless shrug.

“Perhaps,” Kunchen said cryptically.

Hannah leant forward in her cross-legged position, her eyes imploring. “Why wouldn’t you leave? If your goal is to protect your people, then Ron’s right, leaving from here would be the simplest solution. Unless there is something more going on?”

“There is always something more going on. The nature of magic cannot be described through words. It flirts with all, drawing us in with temptation. It stands strong and proud, watching over us all in time. But it is so fragile. The frequency of the harmony in which the magic sings is a narrow edge. It is walked by all every day. Sometimes, we living go to close to one edge. But then everything else tips the other way, keeping the harmony for the magic to continue on. But if we all tip one way or the other, the magic is tempted and swayed by those who attempt to control it. Though it is both young and old in its timeless years, it is naïve.” Kunchen swiped its palms together ridding itself of the last of the herbs. It picked up the ladle and began to stir the cauldron. “We could leave. But this is not an accident. The magic is moving with purpose. It is restless. It is angry. It is more and more like a caged beast with every moon that rises. So the question is, should we leave?”

Ron wet his lips. “If you want to save your people, yeah you should.”

Kunchen hummed, its eyes focused on the swirling contents of the cauldron. “You have a confused soul,” it said after a moment of contemplation.

Ron jerked back, mentally rearing at the sudden change of topic. “I have a confused soul?” he asked.

“Yes, you see the world as if you have lived many lives. You think confidently that the messiness of life can be boxed away neatly and assume that others around you should see the same, do you not?” Kunchen’s blue eyes glowed through the green smoke, boring into his own.

“Sometimes things just _are_ the way they are, no need to complicate them,” Ron replied. _That_ _cheeky git!_ The comforting burn of anger flickered to life in his chest again. “Right is right, wrong is wrong. You want to go right, don’t go left, simple as that really,” he shrugged.

Eerily, Kunchen made a noise that seemed like it was laughing, its shoulders bobbed up and down and its mouth stretched, exposing rows of stained teeth.

“You have not lived Confused One. You cannot box life away so neatly and expect it to follow your rules. It will throw you a surprise. You live in it, it does not live in you, and if you do not learn, you will not survive.”

“Is that a threat?” Ron snapped. Hannah shifted in her seat, her body angled toward his.

“It is a warning.”

The words hung in the air between them, the heady atmosphere crackling with an undercurrent on tension.

“The fact is, Confused One, magic wanted us here. I do not know why. But you are correct,” it said, tilting its head in acknowledgement of Ron, “that I do not want my brethren to be hurt. And you rightly say, that to leave is a way to make their safety true. But do you have an answer for why magic wanted us here?” Kunchen rumbled. It lifted the ladle from the cauldron to its face and sniffed. It returned the ladle and twisted to pick up another pot and started to sprinkle its contents onto the bubbling surface.

“I don’t think we do,” Hannah said quietly, her eyes constantly flicking towards Ron’s tense posture, “but until we do, we have to find a way for the fighting to stop.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Kunchen asked.

Hannah looked to Ron in askance. He frowned, momentarily lost for an idea. Then…

“We have envoys over with the centaurs now. If you agree not to _start_ another skirmish, and we get them to agree to do the same, we can begin to work out the best way forward for what you both want so that everyone can carry on peacefully with their lives, how does that sound?” Ron finished with only a touch of gloating in his voice. _Does that sound fucking confused to you? Furry asshole._

Kunchen nodded thoughtfully as it raised the ladle once again and took a tentative sip. Smacking its lips together, it said, “Yes, I can see the logic of that decision. However, it is very...” it paused as it reached to its side once again and threw a pinch of something white into the cauldron, "human."

Ron frowned. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Sometimes it is, sometimes it is not. Humans are good at seeing through all of the noise and cutting straight to the point," Kunchen tipped his head thoughtfully. "But also sometimes in the need to get to the point, they miss the detail. They miss the important stuff."

"What are we missing?" Hannah said quietly.

"I can agree that to physically stop the fight, would logically save the lives of my brethren. But I cannot overlook why the magic has brought us here. _That_ ," Kunchen levelled its piercing gaze at Hannah, "is something I cannot ignore. My brethren and I hold no ill will to the centaur and we fight to defend ourselves from their inevitable attack. If we withdraw, we may save lives, but we also may not find the answer to why the magic brought us here." 

Ron stared into the fire until the room began to blur around him. The argument was circular. It was a paradox. ' _Mione would love this. She'd know what to do._ He blinked slowly, settling his mind. He was never good at paying attention to 'the noise' as Kunchen had called it. What he was good at was seeing a solution to the problem. It was never elegant. But it was a solution nonetheless. 

"I guess you have to decide what means more to you right now? Finding out the answer to your question or the well-being of your brethren," Ron edged in a lowly voice. 

Kunchen was quiet as it stirred the cauldron, its glowing eyes focused on the swirling contents of the pot. Ron shot a worried glance to Hannah who mirrored his nerves in the etch of her brow. At what seemed like an eternity, Kunchen nodded shortly with a grunt. 

"I can agree to a ceasefire if the centaurs agree too."

Victory spread viciously through Ron’s chest. “I’m just gonna send them the message to do that then with a patronus, is that alright?”

Kunchen nodded again and reached for three bowls. Ron shucked his wand from his sleeve, summoned his jack russell that bounded joyfully around the circumference of the tent, before stopping at Ron's feet.

“The yetis have agreed to a ceasefire so that we can figure out what’s going happening on the conditions that the centaur do the same, what say the centaur?”

The little dog shot through the side of the tent, trailing silvery wisp in its wake.

Ron and Hannah sat quietly and watched as Kunchen spooned the contents of the cauldron into the three bowls. After a moment, it held out two bowls to the pair.

“To warm you while we wait,” it said. Ron took the bowl, eyeing the liquid inside with suspicion. His stomach rolled again at the faint smell of the candied carrots and boiled gammon that was hidden under enticing layers of earthy herbs.

“Thank you,” Hannah said in surprise, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “What is this?”

“It does not have a name in your language, but it is a broth that warms your core. Useful in wilds like these,” Kunchen intoned as it snapped its fingers. Two little orbs of light appeared in the air and zoomed out of the tent. Moments later, the flaps opened behind them and a carousel of yeti stepped around the circumference of the tent, filling their bowls as they passed by before they exited again. Ron sat in awe, noting the various sizes, builds and colours of the giant creatures. Some were adorned with paint of their matted fur, others were adorned with antlers or horns of other creatures. Some wore layer upon layers of wrapped cloth while others wore fur wraps and shrouded hoods.

But every single one of them was adorned with weapons and moved with deadly grace.

There was no doubt in Ron’s mind as he absently sipped at the bowl, too distracted by the procession to worry about the ambiguous green broth, that these creatures were warriors.

By the time the cauldron was empty, so too was Ron’s bowl. A feeling of contentment settled deep within him.

Just then, a ghostly swan flew into the tent, its broad wings outstretched.

“The centaurs agree to a ceasefire and allow for talks to proceed,” Daphne’s clear clipped voice filled the tent. Hannah looked over to Kunchen, smiling in relief.

“Very well,” Kunchen said, rising to its feet. “We will continue our conversation tomorrow. I need to pass this information through the camp.”

“Of course,” Hannah said, getting up, Ron rising less gracefully behind, punching his thigh where his leg had fallen asleep.

“I have enjoyed this,” Kunchen’s mouth stretched in a facsimile of a smile, while it walked them to the opening of the tent.

Ron took a deep gulp of the open air as he ducked through, his feet **squelching** in the sodden earth. Kunchen exchanged words with the yeti who stood sentry outside the tent – the same yeti who had encouraged them in – before it turned back to Hannah and Ron.

“Dorje will take you back, it has been good speaking with you,” Kunchen’s dual-voice rumbled. They returned their pleasantries and turned to leave.

“Confused one?”

A slice of anger shot up Ron’s spine.

_That is not going to become a thing._

“Yes?” He said through grit teeth spinning back to where the black yeti stood.

Kunchen’s glowing blue eyes assessed him a moment, seemingly weighing his soul.

“You stand on two paths, one foot on each. You will need to make a decision soon of which one you will follow.” Kunchen dipped its chin to level Ron with a severe look under its heavy brow. “Do no fight with the magic when it forces you to choose the right one.”

And with that, Kunchen turned and gracefully walked down the path leading away, its lithe black body disappeared into the shadows of the camp quickly, leaving Ron standing in the fork of the throughway, watching on in confusion.

**_20:30pm 10 th of September, 1999 – The breakfast room, The Craigdarroch Inn, Loch Ness, Inverness, Scottish Highlands, Scotland, UK_ **

****

“And then, Fierness said that the stars had guided them to the spot.”

“Wait, so the centaurs have no reason for being there either?” Hannah asked, her tea sloshed over the side of the mug in her surprise.

Daphne shook her head. “Not really, well… other than it being foretold in the stars.”

“ _This_ is why Divination is a bunch of horse shit!” Ron groaned as he banged he head against the window of the conservatory. In the low light of the moon, he could see the surface of the loch break as one of the Naga’s flipped its tail, diving down.

They had been going around in circles ever since they had all arrived back at the Inn. Daphne and Heather’s conversation with the centaurs had gone similarly to his and Hannah's. It was a coincidence. This whole situation was a bloody coincidence. The whole the Quidditch world cup project was in jeopardy because of a bloody fucking bastard coincidence and bloody, no-good, spiritual fearing creatures finding reasons in tea leaves.

Ron banged his head again.

_I hate it._

Suddenly, the door to the conservatory flew open and a man came bursting in, colour high in cheeks, his hair flattened with sweat as he gasped for breath. Immediately Ron tensed on high alert, his wand secure in his hand. Hannah and Daphne got to their feet, matching his readied stance.

“What’s happened?” Daphne snapped. Ron recognised that James was one of hers but he couldn’t remember what team he’d been assigned to.

“It’s - ” he gasped. “They’re fighting.”

The room stilled.

“You’re not talking about the yeti and centaur are you?” Ron said lowly, warning in his voice.

James gulped as his chest heaved still trying to catch his breath.

“We heard commotion – from the yetis – uproar, screaming, never heard anything like it,” he gasped and leant heavily on the table. “We went to see if they needed help – the field had been quiet so y’know – didn’t think anything of it - but,” he hung his head briefly before it snapped back up. “When we got there, they were furious. Kept saying that the centaur had taken Salun.”

Hannah made a quiet noise of exclamation, her hand shooting to her mouth as she turned to Ron with wide fearful eyes. “Kunchen Ron, they took Kunchen!” Her voice built in desperation.

“But…” _Why?_

It made zero sense. Why agree to a ceasefire and peace talks only to enact a blatant act of aggression moments later? Not to mention _how_ did the centaurs sneak unseen across no-man’s land, through the gated encampment and through that tight maze of tents to get to him?

Ron rubbed his forehead, the beginnings of a headache building behind his eyes.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“We had to leg it to the anti-apparition warding we’d put up. It’s a fucking massacre out there.” James’ voice wavered.

Nobody spoke, allowing the gravity of the situation to settle in.

“What do we do now?” Daphne asked.

Hannah hesitated, her eyes trained unblinking at her fingers on the tabletop. “Well, the yeti won’t stop until they get their leader back so…”

Ron sighed, his shoulders heavy. “Guess we’re gonna have to find the bastard then.”

_One day… one day, I will have a quiet life._

**_20:30pm 10 th of September, 1999 – No-Man’s Land, Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, Scotland, UK. _ **

****

It had been many years since Deimos’ feet had touched ground. Many years since the earth had spread beneath her. She hadn’t needed to, everything was quiet. Everything was calm.

Everything was mundane.

Peace.

Sure there had been conflict and strife here and there. Rising crime, a few wars, but that was something her children could handle. She would only come when the chaos had reached a fever pitch that she could spin ever higher. In the meantime, she had focused her attentions elsewhere… for a while. Until that too had grown monotonous and boring.

Her sister had left, citing that she had felt the call. Her sister had felt the pluck the strings bringing her back.

Deimos had waited patiently for the same, for one sister never travelled without the other... but it never came.

Not for years.

Twenty, to be exact.

Until today.

Deimos breathed deep, the acidic, smoky air filling her lungs. She carefully placed her bare feet one in front of the other, relishing the blood-soaked mud squelching between her toes. She raised her arms slowly to her sides, preparing to conduct her orchestra.

To her left, a rising bellow of cacophonous bass echoed from the west. Pain, sorrow and fury lacing the sonorous note.

She twitched a finger on her right hand, plucking a string of her own. The stamping timpani of battering hooves shook the ground, the vibrations forcing the darkened bloody liquid to splatter up her bare legs.

The clouds above cracked with thunder, the rolling rumble of lightning building a crescendo as the two sides faced one another.

With a twitch of smile dancing across her lips, Deimos plucked her strings and brought her arms down in an arching swoop and began to conduct the symphony that would be her magnum opus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback and kudos is loved. Tell me your thought and theories. Muchos love!


	9. Nonostante tutto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day chickidees! I'm actually posting this at a normal human time instead of 4am! I am again nervous about this chapter. I've tried to learn a lesson from the previous chapter whereby in my excitement to post, I overlooked a couple of things. Truly, this entire exercise and 2020 as a whole has been a valuable lesson in patience. 
> 
> Your feedback will be greatly appreciated as always. 
> 
> I can't think of any trigger warnings here. If you see any, please do let me know! 
> 
> Without further ado, I shall see you on the other side.

**_“We tend to think of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ as equal and opposite forces…But that is granting too much to evil. Evil is always a parasite; it can only exist in something good, as a parasite can live only on a host; and if it ever did destroy the host it lives in, it would destroy itself.”_ **

_\- Peter Kreeft_

**Chapter 9 – Nonostante tutto**

* * *

* * *

**_18:37pm, 9 th of September, 1999 – 12 Grimmauld Place, Claremont Square, Islington, London, UK. _ **

****

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Tassa said, tucking a tight pink curl behind her ear. She looked up at Harry as he held the front door open for her, a flirtatious smile on her dark painted lips. The sun was beginning to set earlier now that summer was coming to an end and autumn was darkening their doors. The old-fashion Gaslamp streetlights that stood on the pavement of Claremont Square cast a golden glow over Tassa’s smooth skin. Her smoked eyes fluttered her thick lashes, beckoning him closer. 

“It’s uh, no worries. You don’t know what you don’t know,” he said, offering her a strained smile through the tick of annoyance he felt in his gut.

“Is it alright if I owl you?” she said placing a hand on his arm, “you know, just incase I think of anything?”

“Yeah sure, that would be really helpful if you _do_ remember something,” said Harry, stepping back to clear the doorway for her.

Tassa ducked her head and pulled her cloak tight around her body as she stepped through the door. “It was really nice to meet you Harry,” she said turning back on his doorstep with an expectant look on her face.

“Uh,” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure, you too.” He offered lamely.

With a final glance, she sashayed down the steps and out onto the street. Under the glow of the lamp, she apparated away. Harry closed the door tight and rested his head against the cool wood.

_Well, that was a fucking waste of time._

“Uuuuuuuuuuuuugggggghhh.”

The loud groan came from the living room behind him.

“Did you just die?” Harry asked, his head still resting in despair against the door.

There was a pause.

“Potentially,” Nott replied thoughtfully, his voice carrying down the hall, “I’m not sure.”

Harry scrunched his nose in an attempt to abate the smirk the threatened to spread across his face.

“Well it’s not something that’s easy to miss,” he said, “I would know” he added under his breath.

“One would hope yes, but I’m afraid my intelligence has diminished greatly over the last hour. I fear I may be too stupid to tell,” Nott replied loftily.

Harry snorted and pushed himself off the door, pocketing his hands as he began to amble towards the living room at a sedentary pace.

“Are you ever not dramatic?” Harry asked curiously.

“Does the sun ever fail to rise?” Nott replied, in equal question.

Harry shook his head, laughing quietly to himself as he pushed open the door to the living room. Nott was lay sprawled across the sofa, his rumpled finery pulled more askew by his drawn position, his arm tossed over his eyes in repose. He looked every bit the part of a melodramatic toff. 

“She wasn’t that bad,” said Harry half-heartedly, as he made his way toward the kitchen in search of a fresh brew. He needed caffeine. He was mature enough to admit to himself that he didn’t want to agree with Nott purely out of petty need. That being said, Tassa had been ‘that bad’ _._ Not only had she failed to provide them with any new leads ( _no, I’m sorry, the last I saw her was at the club, dancing her final dance on the main stage)_ but she’d been obsessed with going into minute detail of the dance routine that she had been performing ( _No, of course, I didn’t see anything in the crowd, I had to focus on landing the death drop right because then it shifts into a split twerk which then leads to -),_ all while she had been, not so subtly flirting with Harry. It’s not that Harry didn’t like the attention, of course he did, he was a living being with a pulse and needs after all, and Tassa was, without a doubt, a jaw-dropping type of gorgeous, but Harry was doing his job. And Nott had been sat there. And Harry was looking for Nott’s friend.

_And Nott had been sat there._ At the time, it had felt like two holes were being drilled into the side of his head where he felt Notts’ gaze upon him. _Why would he even care?_ Harry asked himself for the thousandth time. _He wouldn’t, why would he?_ He put the kettle on the hob. _He’d probably think I was really unprofessional so he might care a little… Why do I care?_

All of that being said, Harry could privately concede to Nott’s point: it did indeed feel his brain was wading through molasses, trying to wake up after the deluge of vapid tripe he’d been forced to listen to.

“Did you get anything useful from her at least?” Nott asked.

“I am considering baking that cake she mentioned doing on Wednesday,” Harry said distractedly, putting a tea bag in his mug in preparation.

“You bake?” Nott replied, his voice a lot closer than before. Harry looked up to see the blonde leaning in the doorway. He gestured to the kettle in silent question to which Nott replied with a nod.

“Not in the slightest,” Harry said proudly, reaching for a second mug and placing a teabag in it. “I tried once for Hermione’s birthday, nearly burnt the house down,” he said, pointing out the scorch mark that was still evident on the wall. “But she gave us the full recipe and it sounded really nice _and_ I haven’t had cake in ages.”

Nott gave a thoughtful hum from the doorway in response as Harry poured steaming water into the mugs and he strained the teabags.

As he poured the milk and watched the creamy liquid cloud and reluctantly mix with the tea-infused water, he marvelled at the peaceful domesticity that had materialised between him and Nott. When he had awoken just afternoon, he had come downstairs, made a pot of coffee and had sat by the fire making notes, collecting all of his thought on Thyrra’s case thus far. Within an hour, Nott had entered the room yawning, scratching his navel. He had helped himself to the last of the coffee in the pot, bustled around the kitchen for a while making a new one, then sat opposite Harry in the other reading chair, blinking blearily over the lip of his steaming mug. Eventually, he had pulled one the books from the stack on the floor by the sofa and had settled in to read. And they had sat like that for an hour more, drinking the next pot with Harry scratching away and Nott reading quietly. That had been until Tassa’s owl had appeared informing them of her imminent arrival, when they had then scrambled to make themselves presentable instead of their still bed-crumpled states. Now that she had gone, Harry found himself more surprised that he was not surprised by Nott’s continuous presence.

He handed a mug to Nott as he passed and made his way to the reading chair that was surrounded by his notes. He picked up a piece of parchment he’d written on whilst Tassa had been talking and tried to decipher what it said. The shape of his letters seemed to have lost their purpose in his haste to record the thought.

“Did anything stand out to you?” Harry asked while he squinted at the parchment. _Maybe an a… or an o?_

“Other than the breasts she was trying to shove in your face?” Nott replied innocently with a glint in his eye. Harry threw him a dark scowl before returning to the note. With a sigh, Nott continued, “no, nothing really caught my interest. Though I do have a newfound respect for the dancers in those killer heels,” he trailed off thoughtfully. Harry nodded solemnly and hummed his agreement.

Quiet resumed once again. The fire crackled merrily between them and occasionally the sound of shifting parchment filled the room as Harry continued to decipher his notes.

“So where do we go from here?” Nott asked. Harry gave up trying and dropped the parchment in defeat. It drifted silently to the floor and settled in amongst the rest. He lifted a hand to his face, removed his glasses and scrubbed his tired eyes.

“I’m not sure. I’d like to go back to the farm, but if our suspicions about Robards are true then no doubt the place will be scrubbed clean and probably watched in some way. At this point I think we’re just going to have to wait for Parkinson to point us in a direction from whatever she finds,” he let out a heavy breath, “which is a sentence I never thought I’d say,” he tacked on.

Nott snorted and took a sip from his mug. “I must say, I’m rather impressed. You’ve managed to not burst into flames yet, what with being in my sinful presence for a couple of days now,” he added with a wink over his rueful grin.

Harry huffed his amusement and flicked his middle finger at Nott, who laughed quietly into his cup. “I still don’t trust you,” Harry said after a moment.

“And right you are not to,” Nott agreed in mock-reverence.

A tap at the window alerted them to a black owl that was perched on the windowsill.

“I didn’t think she’d be that quick,” Nott commented as Harry let the owl in. He offered it some treats as he untied the parchment and closed the window after it swooped out again. He glanced at the roll and chucked it into Nott’s lap.

“It’s for you,” he said, resuming his seat. Surprise coloured Nott’s face as he untied the note. As his eyes scanned the parchment, a seriousness settled onto his refined features that Harry hadn’t seen before.

“Everything okay?” he asked. Nott’s eyes snapped to him, then back to the parchment before he began to fold up.

“Yes, yes,” he replied flippantly, “I just have a job tomorrow that slipped my mind in the excitement of today.”

Harry stilled his reach for his tea.

He settled back into the chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin and assessed Nott. Though his logic had rallied against his instinct many times over the last twenty-four hours, against his better judgement he had believed Nott to be innocent. He had relaxed in his presence. He had laughed and eaten breakfast with him, while his logic had disagreed and second-guessed every step of the way, reminding Harry of the file that sat in his desk draw that was titled with Nott’s name. He had shouted down his logic, time and time again, to the point that he had begun to question his own prejudices once or twice.

But.

Despite being left to rot doing admin for whatever reason, Harry was actually good at his job. Very good. There was a reason why he had passed-out of Auror training with flying colours even when a few others around him thought he was nothing but a token placement. Harry wasn’t academic like Hermione, who could pull on tomes and theories to offer answers to impossible problems. Nor was he Ron, who could see ten steps ahead of those around him and figure ways to counter their moves. No, Harry was a maverick. A Marauder legacy. Harry had been taught by the greatest wizards and witches to trust within himself. To trust his instinct.

And his instinct right now was finally in-line with his logic.

Nott was up to no good.

“What’s the job?” He asked. He didn’t try for nonchalance, he could already see the sharp look from the corner of Nott’s eye and the subtle way that his sprawled body had tensed in its relaxed position. Nott knew that Harry had him.

What Harry didn’t know, was if Nott would now try to run. His wand was on the table, resting against the coffee pot, whereas Harry’s was tucked up his sleeve. Nott couldn’t apparate out because of the ancestral warding, but he could scramble for the floo that was five-foot to his right. Or he could fight. The living room was cluttered and cramped, with every available space covered in stacks of books or folders, or various trinkets that Harry knew better than to ask Hermione about. It would be a scrappy, messy dual and Hermione would kill him, but still…

Nott released a breath and lent forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The warmth that Harry had seen in the blonde’s eyes over the short period that they’d been together was completely gone as he searched Harry’s face with a deathly cold appraisal.

“What will it take for you to forget that this happened Potter?” He asked, his voice subdued by the gravity of the question.

Harry could let it go. He could! He did literally have a choice, just the same as he had done during the night when he’d chosen to follow Nott into the elevator.

But the file.

The months of suspicion.

The lack of vindication.

The number of unanswered questions he already had that were piling up.

Harry tapped his thumb against the arm of the chair twice.

“I can assure you that you do not want the answer to that question. What’s the job?”

Nott swallowed, his fingers toying with the note he still held between them. “You’ll still help with Thyrra won’t you?” He asked, his previously colourless voice took on a hint of uncertainty.

“Yes, of course,” Harry said with a frown, “just because you’re up to no good, doesn’t mean she should be punished because of it.”

Nott nodded shortly and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his cigarettes, mumbled something under his breath, put one between his teeth and snapped it alight with a click of his fingers. Harry was about to comment when he noticed again that the smell hadn’t reached him.

“I have to go to Yale tomorrow,” Nott began. Harry’s frown deepened. Of all the things he had been expecting, a muggle university had not been anywhere near the top of the list.

“Why?” he asked. Nott took a long drag of his cigarette, his cheeks hollowing on the pull. He released his breath with a hiss between clenched teeth, the blue smoke partitioning through the gaps.

“A client has paid handsomely for something to be brought back from there,” he said, the smoke hazing his voice roughly.

“What do they want?”

Nott glanced at the note in his hand. “The Voynich manuscript,” he announced as if seeing it for the time.

Harry tapped his thumb against the arm of the chair. Clearly, he was missing an important detail here because he couldn’t understand why collecting a manuscript would warrant the guilt that Nott was exuding.

“What is this manuscript?”

Nott shrugged, his face momentarily lightening. “I have no idea.”

 _No, you don’t do you._ Harry nibbled his lip, his gaze tightening as he assessed the puzzle. “Why do the clients want it?” he asked.

Again, Nott shrugged as he took another drag. “I don’t know. I just know that they want it urgently.”

Harry tapped his thumb. “Who are the clients?”

“No idea, someone else deals with that.”

“Blaise then,”

“I never sa-”

“You didn’t have too,” Harry said cutting him off. “Been watching the club for a while remember?”

Nott huffed and took a drag of his cigarette.

“Where is the manuscript?”

_Gotcha._

Nott’s shoulders tensed as his chest stopped its breath for a second before it controlled the release of air from his lung in a steady, calculated stream.

“In the…” he checked the note and cleared his throat, “Beinecke Library.” He looked to Harry, “I’m assuming that’s on Yale campus, I’ve never been before,” he added as he flicked the butt of his cigarette into the fire. 

Harry stared at Nott who watched evenly back. Somewhere Nott was being shady, but Harry couldn’t figure out where.

Suddenly, the flames of the floo erupted green and Hermione stepped through.

“Where have you been?!” Harry barked in surprise, momentarily distracted. Hermione brushed down her clothes and swiped back the hair that had fallen into her face. Harry’s surprise was immediately replaced with concern and he half lifted himself from the chair as he saw the exhausted deep purple shadows under her eyes and tight set of her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing, just a long day,” she said waving him off before she spotted Nott sat in the other chair looking extremely uncomfortable. Her mouth opened but no question came. Instead, she looked back to Harry, the silent question and surprise evident on her face.

“It’s a bit of a long story. Want some tea?” Harry asked. Hermione nodded and moved into the room as Harry hopped up to head to the kitchen. He saw Nott stand and offer his chair to Hermione, who took it, her confusion more prominent on her features.

“I best be off Potter, I’ve intr-”

“Oh no, you don’t! Sit down,” Harry called back as he placed a tea bag and a dash of honey in Hermione’s mug. A flash of movement caught his eye as he saw a bushy tail disappear into the living room.

“But-”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he growled.

Silence came from the other room in response. He eventually heard the springs of the sofa creak as a new weight settled into them. Harry poured the boiled water into the mug and strained the teabag. He picked out the custard creams that Hermione squirrelled away in an attempt to hide them from him so that he wouldn’t eat them all and stepped back into the living room. He placed the steaming mug on the table and resumed his seat, now opposite a very pale Hermione with a purring devil in her lap.

“Where have you been?” Harry asked gently, eyeing Hermione with concern as she blew on her tea. Her fingers tightened slightly against the cup before her amber eyes flicked to meet his, a small smile on her lips.

“Just down in the archives. Big case just hit the wires and it’s got some particulars about it,” she sipped her tea. “I honestly just lost track of time and by the time I realised, it was way too late to get any sleep. So I just stayed,” she curled one hand into Crookshanks’ fluff and lowered the mug to rest against the arm of the chair.

Harry tutted and shook his head slightly in admonishment, “ ’Mione, that’s bad even for you. At least you’ve got the weekend to rest right?”

“Not really, I’m back in tomorrow.”

“Oh come on!”

“I’ll sleep when this is over,” she said placating. She took another sip before her eyes wandered over to Nott who was sat awkwardly in the middle of the sofa, looking very much like a lost child. She looked back at Harry and raised an eyebrow.

“ ’Mione, you remember Theodore Nott,” Harry said, gesturing to Nott who offered an awkward wave. Harry rolled his eyes at him.

“I do, but I’m confused as to why he’s in our living room?”

“Oh, well, Nott was about to tell me what criminality his job exactly entails.”

Hermione tilted her head in confusion.

“No I wasn’t,” Nott said petulantly.

“Yes, you were.”

“ _No_ , I wasn’t.”

“You were _this_ close to telling me,” Harry said, raising his hand, miming his forefinger and thumb and inch apart.

Nott scoffed, “you were nowhere _near_ breaking me Potter.”

“Yes, I was!”

“No, you were not!”

“Ye-”

“Boys!” Hermione interrupted her brows raised high on her forehead. Harry’s teeth clashed as his mouth snapped shut.

Quiet reigned over the living room once more. Only the logs of the fire snapping could be heard in the background.

“What job is this?” Hermione looked between Harry and Nott. Nott shifted in his seat, leaning back and crossing his long legs whilst he dug into his pocket once again, for another cigarette. He muttered his charm and ignited it with a snap. Hermione quirked an eyebrow.

“A Croatian Latin hybrid?” she commented. Harry looked to Nott, lost on the subject matter only to see a smirk spread across his face.

“That’s the one.”

Hermione made a noise of interest before turning back to Harry. “The job?” she prompted.

“Oh, well Nott’s just had an owl arrive reminding him that he’s got a job tomorrow that involves getting a manuscript from a Yale library for some clients who are,” he raised his hands in quotation and put on an exaggerated posh voice, “paying handsomely because it’s urgent.”

Hermione sipped her tea before she turned to Nott, her amber eyes flashing. “What library?”

Nott took a long drag of the cigarette, holding Harry’s gaze. Finally, his jaw popped and his mouth tightened, displaying his discontent. “The Beinecke Library.”

Hermione’s eyes widened considerably. “The Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library?” Nott released his breath in a cloud that covered his face in a haze of blue smoke. The image reminded Harry suddenly of a waiting dragon. “And what could your client possibly want from there with such urgency that would bypass the rules on taking manuscripts from their protective casings and temperature-controlled environment?” She asked archly.

 _Oh,_ Harry thought. “You bastard! You were going to steal it weren’t you?!” he cried accusingly.

“Were? Still am Potter,” Nott replied nonchalantly with a hint of amusement lacing his arrogant voice. “Unless you’re going to arrest me for a crime I haven’t committed yet?”

Harry glared at Nott, who was lavishly sprawled on the sofa as if he were holding court. The blue smoke from his cigarette curled alluring around him, framing the spark of devilment in his blue eyes that set Harry’s veins alight. He gripped the arm of his chair in an attempt to assuage the need to fling a hex at him. 

Hermione quietly sipped her tea before asking, “what manuscript?”

“The Voynich manuscript,” Nott replied without backing down from his staring match with Harry.

“Interesting, and who’s your client?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you said they were paying handsomely for the urgency of it?”

Nott took another drag of his cigarette, exuding an arrogant air of insouciance. Harry’s fingers tightened their grip on the arm his chair.

“I did, but I don’t know their dealings. Blaise dealt with them and there’s a ‘don’t ask don’t tell policy’ in place,” he replied.

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. Much as he loathed too, he knew Hermione, he knew when she was scheming, and so he broke his staring match with Nott to glance at her. She was stroking Crookshanks absently behind the ear while staring off into the fire.

“Hermione?” He asked tentatively.

“You said that the owl arrived here for Nott, meaning he was already here. What were you two doing before that?” She asked. It took Harry a minute to catch the change of direction in the conversation. His gaze flickered back to Nott, who at the moment had leant forward, his elbows braced against his knees and was looking back at Harry with a mirrored look of curiosity underneath his arrogant veneer. Harry spent the next ten minutes recapping the events of the last twenty-four hours: from The Mumbles and the possible-definite murder to Robards’ suspicious behaviour and the demise of Paperwork Mountain, to Thyrra’s disappearance and the state of her apartment. Every so often, Nott added a detail that Harry had missed or was from his unique perspective.

When they had finished, Hermione returned her gaze into the fire, her eyes lost in the thought.

“This all happened yesterday?” she said. Nott and Harry made affirming noises. “And we can assume that Thyrra’s gone missing in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours?” Again, the boys agreed. Hermione lapsed into thought again. Nott looked at Harry, question evident on his features. Harry shrugged in response, then immediately remembered that he was meant to be mad at Nott. Nott rolled his eyes at Harry’s sudden scowl and stretched his arms across the back of the sofa once more, pulling his shirt taut across his surprisingly defined chest.

Harry quickly turned to Hermione.

_Shelve the thought._

_Later._

“There’s a Hebrew spell that is a lot better at preserving than the Latin stasis spell we were taught,” she said, her voice distracted, her eyes were still trained on the fire. Harry did a double-take at her, while Nott looked on in equal surprise.

“O-okay?”

“Hermione!” they said simultaneously.

“What?” she replied, blinking as if to clear her thoughts as she turned to Harry.

“He’s going to steal it!”

“I know, he said.” She turned to Nott, “It’s pronounced ‘soon-tay-reh’-o’ with a backward wingardeum leviosa.”

“Hermione!” Harry spluttered.

“You’re going with him,” Hermione said, turning to Harry.

There was a pause before…

“You can’t be serious?!”

“What?!”

“No, absolutely not!”

“Why would I even allow him to come along?!”

“Why would I go with him?!”

Hermione raised a hand silencing the two. “While I don’t approve of theft,” she said pointedly to Nott, “you need to see the bigger picture here Harry. Worst case scenario, you have evidence that Nott committed a crime, though what you could do with that I don’t know,”

“Exact-”

“Why is that wor-”

“BEST case scenario,” she said, talking over their interruptions, “is that you catch the people who are in want of the world’s most mysterious manuscript.” Harry sat back in his seat, dumbfounded at the logic. “Sometimes,” she continued, as she resumed her stare into the fire, “the only way to draw a spider from the hole it lives, is to entangle yourself in its web.”

Harry exchanged a look with Nott who wore a resigned expression on his face. The Auror in him could see Hermione’s point: catch a small fish or catch a big one. Which, as far as Harry was concerned, was an easy decision. Where Harry struggled, was that this was the moment that his conscious decided to take a step back to analyse his existential situation and how his life had so quickly derailed in just over twenty-four hours. Yesterday morning, he had been daydreaming into the distance and reminding himself that his time would come. Then Robards had knocked his cubicle with a familiar warm smile. And now, a day later, there was a missing girl, a possible-definite murder, he didn’t trust Robards and Hermione had practically suggested that he take Nott on as an informant while he went _technically_ undercover, for a job he may or may not have quit or been fired from, to steal some manuscript from a library to possibly catch some shady people…

He tapped his thumb twice.

He felt as if he were waking from a long sleep, he bones creaking as he flexed his joints in preparation and excitement.

Decision made, he drew a breath and met Nott’s wary eyes. “What time are we leaving?”

*

**_13:30pm, 10 th of September, 1999 – _ ** **_Penthouse, Hyde Park Gardens, London UK._ **

****

Theo threw his bedroom door open and stalked down the hall, scrambling to get his arms through his coat as he went. He turned onto the balcony and blinked his eyes against the harsh sunlight that shone through a slanted glass roof that looked out onto the greens of Hyde Park. He skipped down the steps, running a hand over his hair; he had overslept and hadn’t had enough time to style it. Beneath him, he saw the evidence that Pansy had come home at some point during the night. The pointed murder weapons she called shoes were strewn across the living room floor from where she must have kicked them off on her way through. He dashed to the kitchen and flicked on the coffee machine. The whir of the machine kicking into life filled the room, closely followed by the rich scent of freshly ground coffee. He tapped the fine dewy powder into the shot handle, slotted it into place over his waiting espresso cup underneath and pressed ‘start’. After an overly aggressive growl of reluctance, the machine released hot water through the shot and the cup began to fill with Arabica nectar. Once done, he tapped the used powder into the bin, opened the huge French doors and took his espresso through to the balcony.

When they had bought the place, all those months ago, the penthouse had been sleek and modern, every bit the home for ‘young and trendy individuals’, the retailer had said. What it was, was different in every way from what they knew. It was muggle for a start. There had been a few mishaps when they’d first moved in with their magic naturally reaching out to turn on lights as they entered rooms, and thus blowing the fuse for the penthouse electrics. Over time, they had learned to navigate the circuit boards, tripping switches or circuit breakers, rather than interfering with the electrical energy itself. In the meantime, they had learnt to live as muggles do: making coffee for instance, had become a meditative practice that Theo enjoyed every day. The barista machine had come with the building and after weeks of eyeing it with suspicion, Theo had been so desperate for caffeine after a job in Beijing, that he had spent the entire day making cup after cup of coffee. Pansy had decided that the Nest, as Blaise had come to refer to it as, would be a haven. Between the Slytherin common room and the manors that they had grown up in, none of them had had light and airy spaces. So one of the main reasons for choosing the Penthouse had been the huge skylight windows that covered more than half of the ceiling, giving a panoramic view of London and opening the main open floor plan living area up to the sky. The balcony had been her project. It was now a small Eden, hidden away from prying eyes. She had cultivated the plants, ivy and foliage to grow and prosper; she’d encouraged a bushel of fairies to make their home in amongst the wild jungle. Then she’d hidden a comfy bohemian seating area at the end of the decking, hidden amongst nature, where she often practised the forms of whatever the martial art of the week was.

Theo used the area to sip his espressos and smoke his cigarettes in peace.

Theo lit his cigarette with a snap of a silver lighter before pocketing it. He took a drag, his lips pursed around the bitter end, savouring the acrid burnt taste upon his tongue. He breathed in slowly, relishing the burn in his chest as he turned his eyes to the azure sky above. So much about today was giving him anxiety. Theo was always nervous before a job – he would be a fool or not to be. But something about this job wasn’t right. When he’d stolen a Monet from the Louvre, he hadn’t blinked. When he’d stolen the Diamond Panther bracelet from the dying hands of the Duchess of Venice, he had done it with a smile. When he’d stolen the Relic of St Jude Thaddeus from the Vatican, he’d done it with a skip in his step and a Roman gelato ice cream in his hands.

A manuscript was nothing special.

He supposed it was the urgency in which the clients demanded the manuscript. And on top of what Granger had let slip about it being ‘the world’s most mysterious manuscript’ and why it held that title and urging Potter to take an interest in the clients who would want it…Needless to say, Theo was feeling increasing trepidation about the entire venture.

And Potter was coming.

Plus, it was day three of Thyrra’s disappearance and all they had was more questions.

If someone had told him a couple of days ago, that he would be welcomed into the Golden Boy’s home, offered tea like a civilised guest and converse and laugh with him, he would have laughed them out of the room. If someone had told him that he would be taking an Auror on a job, he would have asked what they were smoking. If someone had told him that that Auror was the Chosen One and that the entire enterprise had been suggested by Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor Queen, Swot extraordinaire, he would have checked that person quickly into the Janus Thickey ward before they could harm anyone in their fit of insanity.

Except, that _had_ happened.

Theo pulled another drag and saw movement from the corner of his eye. With a hint of a smile, he meandered down the decked path and ducked into the seating area. Lay upon one of the voluptuous cushioned pillows, was Renfield, wearing an incredibly self-satisfied look. Theo grinned as he took a seat, careful not to disturb the pillow. He took a sip of his espresso and looked over to the tufty eared cat who watched him with knowing eyes.

“Comfy?” He asked. Renfield blinked slowly and started cleaning his paw and running it behind his ear.

“I have to meet Potter in fifteen minutes,” Theo muttered quietly, taking another pull of his cigarette. Renfield continued his ministrations. “I think about I’m about to do something really quite bad,” he mused. “It’s not that I haven’t done anything like this before, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.” Renfield paused momentarily to look at him.

“Should I call it off?” he asked. Renfield continued his stare, his yellow eyes piercing.

He couldn’t call it off; not because of the money, it was never about the money, they had plenty between them really. The whole enterprise had started in a fit of independence, not wanting to rely on their family coffers. But now that Soteria was as successful as it was, and with the jobs that they had already done, they wouldn’t need to work a day in their lives ever again. So was it the morality of the whole thing? He’d certainly done worse. In one job, he had deprived an entire lineage of its inheritance, subsequently making them homeless and he hadn’t regretted it. _I don’t think I’ve suddenly developed a moral good on my shoulder._ And yet, the pervading sense of unease knotted in his stomach.

No, he couldn’t call it off now because Theo found himself agreeing with Potter and Granger. The reason that these people wanted whatever this manuscript was sketchy enough to pay an obscene amount of money – way above its market value - to keep it off the books. That, in of itself, was enough to warrant suspicion, and growing up in the Nott household had provided him with enough lessons about powerful men with dubious intentions and questionable items with unknown origins, to last a lifetime.

That was why he wanted to call it off. He’d walked this walk many times before in his life. Gathering some unknown item and handing it off to someone he knew to be no good, only to see moments later, that item cause harm and sometimes death, in the hands that he had placed it in.

_But I’m taking an Auror with me this time… so maybe that’s different._

He drained the last of his espresso and vanished the cigarette butt.

“Do you know where the others are?” he asked. Renfield chirped and twitched his tail. “Blaise has gone? Where?” He raised an inquiring brow at the feline who was busying himself with his paw. No response came until he stretched out his lithe little body, arching his back, his paws brushing against something that crinkled on the other side of the pillow. Theo reached over and pulled the Daily Prophet from where it was half-hidden under the cushion. He shook it out, unfolding it roughly and released an uncontrollable yelp at the headline:

_The Secret Rendez Vous - Ministry vs Malfoy Heir in an unexpected turn of events._

Theo’s pulse quickened as he devoured the words on the page, scouring for information. _Draco… Trial?! Creature?!_ His heart plummeted as he connected the dots. _Fuck._ The whole creature thing wasn’t really a surprise. It was more common than not in amongst the Sacred Twenty-Eight; his own father had often alluded to something more in the Nott line and his mothers. But when the Dark Lord had risen to power the second time, Theo had been banned from speaking of it. They were going to make a spectacle of Draco. The article was already banging the drum: ‘pure-blooded Malfoy is a creature,’ ‘not really pureblood’, ‘hypocrite’. His hand tightened its hold, the crinkle of paper filled the peaceful garden. The irony of it all was that the propaganda that was being perpetuated by the rapacious article was the black and white, short-sighted distinction of blood purity that had been drawn by the Dark Lord. Prior to him, magical blood was magical blood. Creatures had less legal rights but bred into a family line, it was fashionable - powerful even. The family generations were then bestowed with the stronger characteristics of the creature. But to stand on the moral high-ground of the people, touting the same party line against those who were being criminalised for enforcing it, was a special type of mental gymnastics that made Theo’s blood turn to ice. He had to be there. He had to be there for his friend.

But the manuscript.

Potter.

_As if I wasn’t already feeling shit about today._

_NARCISSA!_

Blaise was already there. _Pansy._

He bolted from his seat, paper clutched in hand and sprinted through the house. He vaulted the stairs, two at a time and flew down the corridor. He couldn’t be there with Draco. He was going to have to rely on the other two. This was how they worked. It had taken then a while, but they had come to rely on one another as a seamless team unit. He reached the closed door that was hidden in a shadowed nook. He rapped his knuckles against the solid frame, his breath puffing and waited impatiently. No sound came from within. He did so again, bouncing from foot to foot.

_Fuck this._

“Sorry Pans, my eyes are closed but you’ve got to see this,” Theo said, entering the room with a hand covering his eyes.

Silence.

He peaked uneasily between his fingers to see a perfectly made, untouched bed. He looked around the room. The wardrobe was thrown open, various clothes haphazardly thrown over the back of the sofa in apparent haste. She wasn’t there. He backed out of the room and made his way down the hall once again. He cast a quick tempus and swore under his breath. He had five minutes to get to Potter’s for the portkey, in order to get to the library in time.

Blaise was with Draco.

He paused his journey on the way through the living area to pull a pen and paper from the drawer of the coffee table. He scrawled a note for Pansy, explaining that he couldn’t but he suspected that Blaise was already en route. He placed the paper and note on the kitchen counter that she was sure to pass on her way in.

_Head in the game Nott._

With a deep, readying breath and shaking hands, he rolled his shoulders and stood before the floo. He took a healthy pinch of powder and with a barked enunciation, whizzed away, only to arrive with aplomb on the hearth of Grimmauld Place.

Theo brushed his clothes down and looked around the room. The house was quiet; a complete opposite from his hammering heart and frazzled nerves. He straightened his cuffs, more out of a nervous habit and settled into one of the very comfy reading chairs that he had grown inexplicably fond of while preparing to wait for Potter to appear. He looked around him, trying to distract his attention from the article’s words that ricocheted around his mind. Every surface in the cramped space was cluttered with something of note. Be it a book or an item of intrigue, Theo had spent a lot of his time in the cosy room thus far, in a deep state of inquisitiveness.

****

He heard a **thump** from the upper floors, followed by the sound of feet thundering down the stairs. Suddenly, Potter appeared in the room, attempting to pull his head through his jumper; the struggle of which caused the black t-shirt he wore underneath to ride up, exposing a sliver of pale skin and a dark trail that disappeared in his black jeans.

_Focus._

Theo swallowed around his suddenly dry mouth and looked away until he heard Potter walk into the sofa.

He still had his head stuck in the jumper.

“You’re a mess,” Theo commented. Potter froze his wriggling, his arms stuck upwards at an awkward angle, either side of a tuft of black hair that had actually managed to free itself from the confines of the jumper and was subsequently making the most of its freedom.

“Nott?” Came Potter’s muffled voice. Theo’s nose scrunched slightly in amusement at the other man’s endearing confusion.

“No, this is your conscious,” Theo replied in an airy tone. Potter tutted and renewed his struggle. After a moment, his head appeared through the neck and he tugged the jumper viciously into place. He spent a moment, tidying the roll of his polo neck before he hiked up his sleeves, pulled his glasses from his pocket and affixed them to his face.

“Ready?” he said brightly.

 _He’s like a puppy,_ Theo mused, taking in the other man’s lean frame in his fitted clothes. He stood from the chair and pulled the wrapped handkerchief that contained the portkey.

“It’s interesting that the first time I’ve seen you truly excited is when you’re about to go and break a law,” Theo said offhandedly, stepping around the coffee table, unravelling the handkerchief.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Potter replied shortly, his voice taking on an immediate defence. Theo chuckled and held the gold cuff that was lay inside the handkerchief up to the light for inspection. The cuff was a simple, yet weighty, thick band of yellow gold. At either end, a crucifix with a flower, that looked like a rose, in its centre was engraved into the immaculate metal. Theo admired the exquisite craftsmanship with a critical eye and couldn’t find a single flaw.

“I mean nothing by it Potter, it is merely just an observation,” he said distractedly.

Again, his curiosity about the clients, peaked, adding another layer of anxiety to his day. Usually, the illegally acquired portkeys, and government-approved portkeys for that matter, were throw-away items. Only a couple of times had he received portkeys from clients that had been something of value: a Rolex, a skeleton key, crystal letter opener. But those clients had hired Theo to steal whatever because they had had a point to prove. Whatever their goal had been, the stolen item had had a function, rather than just being a coveted gem. The Relic of St Jude Thaddeus for example. The portkey for that had been a gilded pocket watch with a chain laced in sapphires and emeralds. Three weeks after he handed over the Relic to the client, the muggle Pope had fallen severely ill and ultimately passed. Thus prompting the shortest conclave in history, selecting the new Pope Clement XIII in just twelve hours, beating the prior record of one day set in 1939 following the death of Pope Pius XI.

Potter stepped into Theo’s space to examine the cuff.

“That it?” he asked, squinting as the gold reflected in his glasses.

“Yep,” Theo replied, popping the P.

“Do I want to know if it’s legal or not?”

Theo span the cuff to see the other side. “Nope,” he said, popping the P again with a smirk. Potter huffed a sigh and muttered something that sounded like a profanity under his breath.

“Let’s get this over with then,” Theo said too brightly, with more enthusiasm than he felt. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back.”

Theo hooked the cuff with his fingers and offered the other side of the loop to Potter. Once he was sure the other man was secure in his grip, he tapped the cuff with his wand and activated the portkey. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as if it were struggling to reanimate, the buzzing of the portkey’s magic gradually grew, until they disappeared from the room with an ear-popping **schwip**.

**_09:00am, EST, 10 th September 1999 – Grove Street Cemetery, 227 Grove Street, New Haven, Connecticut, USA. _ **

****

Harry stumbled as his feet landed on sodden earth. He took a deep breath, relishing in the clear air that calmed his roiling stomach. Next to him, Nott visibly shuddered and shook out his limbs before he righted the collar of his black dress coat. The lines of his face were tighter than Harry had become accustomed to.

“Nervous?” Harry asked, pocketing his hands against the chill in the light breeze that gathered around them.

“No more than usual,” Nott said darkly.

Harry frowned. “You sure? You don’t seem right.” He was well aware that it was not for him to say, but he was also aware of the necessity of having to rely on a partner whose head was potentially not in the game.

Nott was quiet for a moment more as he scanned the area around them. They had landed in what seemed to be a vast cemetery, the aged stones standing proud in amongst trees with turning leaves. He started walking toward a path that cut between two mausoleums further up.

“Did you see the Prophet today?” Nott said suddenly after a moment of quiet.

“No, I stopped reading that shit ages ago. Why?” Harry asked, cutting him a glance. Nott was walking with his head bowed, his face pensive.

“It’s Draco, he’s uh…” Nott looked up, suddenly uneasy as if he remembered something. He wet his lips and took a sharp breath before he snapped his attention forward. “It’s nothing. Sorry.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “I won’t push if you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m not gonna hex you for mentioning Malfoy. Is he alright?”

Nott jerked in surprise and stopped walking. “Is he _alright?”_ He repeated.

Harry stopped and turned to him. “How am I supposed to know, you’re th-”

Nott waved him off. “No, you’re asking _me_ if he’s alright?”

Harry frowned, his confusion deepening. “Well…yeah.” He shrugged his shoulders, his hands still pocketed. “I’m very confused about what is happening right here,” he commented conversationally, gesturing between them. Nott shook his head in disbelief.

“I just never thought you’d care enough to ask,” Nott said as he resumed walking.

“Well, I owe him and his mother my life. He never should have gone to Azkaban, ‘Mione and I fought with Kingsley on that, but it was too late to overturn, but we tried,” Harry said. It took him a moment to realise that Nott had disappeared from his side. He looked around to no avail until he spotted Nott a few feet behind him, looking a complete picture of shock.

“You and _Granger,_ of all people, fought with Kingsley on behalf of Draco?!” The pitch of his voice rose throughout the sentence until, by the end, it had reached a level that Harry was convinced only dogs could hear.

“History is just that Nott, history. Malfoy has many faults, which I am more than willing to list in alphabetical and chronological order, but the man saved my life at the moment where it counted the most.” He scuffed his foot against the tarmacked pavement, shuffling some newly fallen autumnal leaves. “The guy deserves a punch in the face and a lifetime supply of bat-bogey hexes, not Azkaban.”

Nott gawped at him, blinking owlishly for a moment before he roughly shoved back some of the dark blonde curled tendrils that had fallen into his eyes. He stalked forward, clipping a demanding, “come on,” as he passed. Harry trotted to catch-up with his long strides.

“The front page of the Prophet this morning said that the Ministry was holding a surprise hearing for Draco’s case to debate a potential early release,” Nott said shortly, his eyes scanning the maze of paths ahead of them, choosing a direction. He took a left. “The article also exposed that he’s had a creature inheritance in Azkaban.”

Harry, whose mind was already tumbling over the possibilities of calling an emergency hearing, came to a grinding halt.

“Do you know what creature?” Harry asked. Nott shook his head. “Do you reckon the two are connected?”

“Without a doubt,” Nott replied. “Creatures don’t have half as many rights as the rest of us, and now the Ministry has a Malfoy by the balls.” An ugly snort came from him as he stooped his tall form under a low hanging branch, his face dark with his thoughts.

Nott was right, Harry thought. Draco was fucked. The post-war campaign had been focused on repairing the image of the government, considering that the people had lost faith in them. Kingsley had spent tireless months ridding known corrupt individuals from power and over-turning blatant blood prejudice laws that had been implemented during the war. But popularity was still low. Even though he didn’t bother with politics, he couldn’t avoid the rhetoric when faced with it every day from his colleagues or even just over-hearing it in a coffee shop. They needed a win. They needed a morale booster. They needed something to show that the old ways were out and something to unite a tattered country.

They were going to use Malfoy.

Harry filled with dread and the caustic taste of injustice left a sour flavour on his tongue. But even so, the Ministry was a gargantuan pile of bureaucracy. Getting anything done with ‘urgency’ usually meant waiting at least a fortnight. Which meant that if Malfoy’s hearing was as ‘sudden and urgent’ as Nott believed it to be, it infact meant the exact opposite and that there was an element of planning in this. The whole thing was contrived. And to add on top, Malfoy’s creature inheritance? Either that was a stroke of coincidental luck from the gods or something more was at hand.

Harry now considered it a personality trait of his, that he always tended to err towards the latter.

“We have to help him, I don’t like this one bit, something’s going on,” Harry said resolutely. “When’s the hearing?”

“It started an hour ago,” Nott replied.

Harry started. “What the fuck are we doing here?!”

“Blaise has gone, and I’m assuming Pansy too, but I left her a note for her just in case. There’s not a lot we can do whilst the hearing is still in session. This has to be done Potter, so we’re here. We get in, grab this thing, get back. No more than an hour max. By then, there’ll be more information.” The tone of Nott’s voice left no room for argument and the severe set of his face showed the determination in his actions. He looked over his shoulder down at Harry, his blue eyes cold and calculating. “You really with me on this Potter?”

“Yes,” Harry replied with as much conviction.

Whether or not Nott questioned Harry’s motives, like he had all the other times he’d asked over the last couple of days, he didn’t ask this time. Instead, Nott cut off the path and across a kept lawn, hopping over a couple of graves. He led Harry to a wider path that was lined with trees on both sides. At the end of the short, shadowed walk, stood a house in a tarmacked clearing. Beyond that, a pillared entranced with brown bricks and a black, twisted spiked fence, stood imposingly as the entrance. They ducked through the tall gap and out onto the street. Harry looked back up at the hulking formation, and noted the inscription at the top read:

_The dead shall be raised._

With his brows high on his forehead, he turned back and jogged to catch up with Nott’s strident gait; the impressive coat that billowed behind him, cast a striking silhouette in the cold light of the overcast morning.

“How do you know where to go?” Harry asked a little breathlessly.

“They left instructions.”

“Oh right, how far till the library?”

“Not far, it’s just up here,” Nott replied.

They walked in silence up the long straight road. The closer they got to the group of buildings ahead, the more people there were milling about. Harry could see college students carrying files, coffees in hand, laughing as they headed to their destinations, or their heads bent low over a book, headphones on as they sat under a tree on a grassy lawn. The two men trotted across the busy road and skirted to the right of an old building. The path opened up into an expansive courtyard, the ground sleek with pale stone. Ahead stood a huge strange, white honeycomb-like cube, with people entering and exiting from a gap beneath it.

“So what’s the plan?” Harry asked as he danced around a group of girls who appeared from seemingly nowhere.

“We have an appointment at nine-thirty. They’re expecting Doctor Engström from Uppsala University’s History of Science Office,” Nott replied as he smoothly stepped around a skateboarder.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked. Nott threw him a dower look.

“Me, I am Doctor Engström,” he said, affecting an accent.

“Oh,” Harry said taken aback, “who am I supposed to be then? And what accent is that meant to be?”

“I’ll have you know, I do a very convincing Swedish accent,” Nott sniffed, popping his collar against the breeze that had picked up. “And you can be a research assistant or something.”

“Sure okay yeah…” Harry dodged a man who was talking a loudly into his phone, “so what’s my name?”

“Harry,” Nott replied without missing a beat.

“What?! How come I don’t get a fake name?”

“Because the only time anyone ever cares about the research assistant is when they’re fucking the professor,” he said with a smirk, gliding through a gaggle of women dressed in sports gear. “Other than that, they’re pretty invisible.”

Harry felt his cheeks heat at the sudden image that the words had conjured in his mind and his rebuttal died in his throat.

… _Nope. Later._

He gruffed to clear it and swallowed clumsily around his heavy tongue.

“So uh,” he ran a hand viscously through his hair, “History of Science office? Do muggles consider alchemy science?”

“I guess so,” Nott replied.

Hermione had stayed up with them for an hour more, explaining all that she knew of the Voynich manuscript. Which was disconcertingly little. She had said that nobody knew where it had come from, who had written it, when they had written it, nor what they had written. It remained one of the greater unsolved mysteries of the world, as to date, no one had been able to figure the cypher for the code it had been written in. However, it was widely believed to be an alchemical scripture, featuring astrological charts as well as descriptive botanical diagrams and common alchemical drawings. All this information did was further Harry’s suspicion of Nott’s clients. What could they possibly want with such an impenetrable manuscript?

They approached the honeycomb building and disappeared into the gap beneath it. Further in lay a wall of glass. Nott followed closely behind a group of students who tapped their cards to unlock the door and slipped in behind them, gracing the girl who held the door for them with a charming smile that she shyly returned. Nott strode confidently across the lobby towards a large desk. Behind it sat a young woman who was clutching her Starbucks cup as if it were her only cherished thing in life.

“God Morgan,” Nott said in a silken tone that curled lovingly from the back of his throat, around the hardened ‘r’ of his new accent. The girl did a double-take up at him, her pouty lips parting slightly.

“God… uh, yeah,” she seemed to collect herself as she caught sight of Harry who offered her a kind smile over Nott’s shoulder. “Sorry, good morning! How can I help you today sir?” she said brightly in her warm southern accent.

“I am Doctor Engström and this is my assistant. I have an appointment with Doctor Stephanie Philips at nine-thirty?” Harry’s brow rose slightly. Nott’s accent was impressive: subtly throaty, markedly not British, softer in some places and more rounded in others. It wasn’t a comic-take. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d believe it.

But there was also, no way that he’d be able to mimic it.

“One moment.” The blue light of the screen illuminated her face as the woman tapped at the computer in front of her. Her eyes kept darting back to Nott, who was casually looking around, a pleasant, relaxed look on his handsome, aristocratic features.

“I’ve got you right here. I’ll take you through Doctor, Doctor Philips is up on the Mezzanine floor,” she said, lifting herself from her chair and coming around the desk. She led them out of the lobby and up a flight of stairs. Harry had to stop himself from staring around too wide-eyed at the sight, lest he look out of place. The light from outside shone throw the honeycomb walls, casting the space in a warm golden glow. The Mezzanine floor, as the woman had called, it was a spacious area that housed many glass displays, filled with oddities and books. Centre of it all, was a glass tower that reached to the top of the roof and was full of floor upon floor of books, all lit with in a soft ambient glow. Harry had never been one for libraries, but even he could admit the entire ensemble was enchanting. 

The woman from the desk led them toward another woman who was stooped over one of the glass cases. Her raven hair fell down over her shoulders, obscuring her face as she peered through the glass.

“Doctor Philips?” The woman from the desk called. Doctor Philips straightened and Harry couldn’t help the gulp of dismay he did as her dark eyes set upon them. Her expression was sharp, her dark eyes piercing.

“Doctor Engström I presume?” Doctor Philips’ tone was imperious, her eyes narrowed in accusation at Nott who tensed slightly at the unwelcoming greeting.

“Yes, thank you for agreeing to meet me,” he said, holding out a hand in greeting. There was a tension-filled pause as Doctor Philips assessed Nott, her eyes calculating. Until finally she reached out and shook his hand.

“I didn’t agree. The Voynich has seen increasing activity over the last few months, and the last few patrons have been less than gentle with the priceless work,” she said, her cold austere still apparent in her stance. “I would beg your forgiveness but I’m afraid you are not my priority. Against my advice, the committee has granted your perusal. You shall, therefore, do so only under my strict rules. Do you understand?”

“Of course, I mean no harm to come to such an important piece Doctor Philips,” Nott lied as smooth as butter, his face the perfect ensemble of empathy. Harry felt physical pain from his restraint of rolling his eyes.

“This way then.” Doctor Philips led them back toward the stairs that they had walked up originally, and around to descend a secondary staircase, leading them deeper into the bowels of the library.

“You’re a psychopath,” Harry whispered to Nott from the corner of his mouth. He heard Nott chuckle quietly under his breath.

“Glad you finally cottoned on,” Nott whispered back as Doctor Philips’ commanding voice barked rules ahead of them. They turned to the left and waited for Doctor Philips to input the code on a smooth touch keypad to release the door. She led them through the antechamber to another door, with a different code. Beyond that, lay a brightly lit corridor, lined with glass walls. Each side was partitioned into separate empty smaller rooms, each containing a singular desk.

Harry and Nott exchanged a glance as she led them into the glass tank. Harry had spotted at least seven cameras on the way in. His palms began to sweat. He had no idea how they were going to pull this off. There was glass everywhere leaving no place to hide from watching eyes.

Doctor Philips rounded the desk and pulled up the receiver from the phone that lay on the desk.

“Yes, we’re here. Room three please.” She placed the receiver back in its hold. “If I could ask you to put these gloves on please gentlemen,” she said briskly as she held out two pairs of rubber gloves. There was a tap at the door before it swung open and a young bespectacled man pulled in a trolley containing a glass case. Doctor Philips nodded her gratitude sternly, before rounding the case. She pulled a heavy set of keys from her pocket and seemingly picked one at random to put in the lock. Twisting it, Harry heard the quiet **schnick** of the locks’ release and the glass lid opened ominously. With gentle reverence, Doctor Philips lifted a thick aged book from within, its pages yellowed with its years. She placed it carefully on the stand that stood in the centre of the desk and gestured for Nott and Harry to begin, while she stepped back toward the trolley to lock it up. The young man left with a deferential half bow to Doctor Philips, who seemed to have already forgotten his existence.

Nott stood before manuscript, Harry just behind his right shoulder. Doctor Philips stood quietly on the other side of the desk, between them and the door, glowering at them under her harsh brow. From Hermione’s ominous words the night before, Harry had built the Voynich manuscript up in his head to be more of a spectacle that some of the howling or growling books that he had read in Hogwarts. But the front cover of the Voynich was a sandy plain colour, the parchment creased with use. Picking up one of the tongs, Nott slipped it carefully under the cover and opened it up, revealing the inside. Harry spotted numerous pencilled notes from differing hands, faded with time. In the centre, was a starch label bearing Yale’s coat of arms and a missive that read:

_Yale University Library_

_Gift of:_

_Hans P Kraus_

The silence of the room trembled with an atmosphere of awe as Nott flipped to the first page. Written in paragraphs of faded reddish ink, Harry could see a swirling curling alphabet he simultaneously recognised but was also entirely alien. It seemed that though neither Harry nor Nott truly understood the magnitude of the script before them, they had somehow become spellbound in the first whispers of its secrets. The pages were so thin that it was possible to clearly see a vibrant green the danced behind the neat script. Nott flipped to the second page, his attention rapt as his eyes hungrily scanned it. This page showed a drawing of a sapling of some kind; its leaves alternating between green and gold, its body growing from feathered earth until its flowering bulb stretched up the centre. Again the same scripture lay either side of it. The next page, a detailed showing of a dandelion type flower. The one after that, a lily pad. Steadily the plants grew more alien, with red petals interlaced with green rows; blue bulbous hooded heads over prickly leaves. Page after page, each annotated with the same controlled hand of scripture, until suddenly a page filled with concentric circles, each bearing notes that seemed to be a mixture of whatever code the notes had been written in, as well as astrological symbols. In the centre, lay four beings, each looking to the left of their stationed points of north, south, east and west. Spiralling from the dead centre, more notes cut each of the quadrants.

And so it went on. Bouncing back and forth between botany and astrology with no apparent structure. Harry was so engrossed in the work, trying hopelessly to fathom its meaning when suddenly Nott quietly purred in his Swedish accent.

“Are you still with me Harry?”

Harry blinked, confused. He hadn’t gone anywhere. _Maybe he meant I was too distracted from the mission._

_Which was to steal the script._

_‘Are you with me Potter?’_ The memory sounded in his head.

“Yes.” Harry echoed his response, adrenaline suddenly alighting his veins.

Nott seemed to release a slow breath until he became still. He leant forward to flip the next page, only Harry saw too late that the tongs that he had been using had been swapped for his wand.

“Confundus,” Nott breathed and Doctor Philips swayed dangerously on her feet. He flicked the tip in the direction of the camera and muttered, “împiediccas.”

Harry bolted around the side of the desk to steady a still swaying Doctor Philips, his suddenly rocketing pulse pounding in his ears, and noticed the red light on the camera in the corner flicker, before resuming its steady shine.

“It didn’t work,” Harry said. He looked over his shoulder to see Nott pull a book from his inside coat pocket.

“Dissimulatio senectus volume,” Nott chanted, ignoring him, his satiny voice brushing over the chant as he circled his wand over the new book. Slowly, the neatly formatted book became more unravelled as it aged in time. In the next breath, Nott was holding a replica of the Voynich in his hand. A crease appeared between his brow as he lowered the new glamoured book to the desk and focused on the Voynich.

“Soon-tay-reh’-o,” he said, his face darkened in complete concentration, as he jauntily flicked and swished his wand. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a sheen of silver settled over the manuscript, glistening in the bright light of the office. He lifted manuscript and carefully placed it in his inside pocket.

He caught Harry’s confused glance at the move. “Expandable pockets are a thief’s best friend,” he explained with a shrug, placing the glamoured book in the trolley. Doctor Philips was turning her hands over before her as if she had never seen them before.

“How long is that glamour going to last?” Harry said, eyeing the Doctor with worry.

“Providing nobody touches the manuscript, it should last a couple of days,” he said quickly. “Doctor Philips?” he called, snapping his fingers to get the woman’s attention. Doctor Philips looked up at him, wobbling slightly at the motion. Harry caught her, righted her and removed his hands cautiously.

“Do you know where you are Doctor Philips?” Nott said clearly and slowly. The Doctor looked around her, her brow creasing slightly as she took in the brightened space.

“The library?” she said in a small voice, so vastly different from the voice she had greeted them with that Harry felt his first twinge of guilt.

“Is she going to be okay?” He asked anxiously.

“Yeah, it’ll wear off in thirty minutes or so. She’ll have a vague memory of this morning, but other than that, nothing will be out of place for her,” he said to Harry before turning back to the Doctor. “Doctor Philips, you’re going to take the trolley back to the book tower now okay?”

Doctor Philips swivelled her neck exaggeratedly and swayed dangerously in the direction of the trolley. She lurched forward, attaching herself to the handle, and looked back in uncertainty.

“That’s right. When you’ve put the manuscript away, you’re going to go to the cafeteria because you need coffee and doughnut. Some sugar and caffeine. You had a long night and you need something to wake you up. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Nott said in a commanding but warm voice. Doctor Philips nodded slowly as if unsure of the action, a smile flickering in response to Nott’s own.

“Come along now,” Nott said, opening the door. He ushered Doctor Philips through, with Harry following close behind her, who was marking her every wobbly move. He felt like he was corralling a newborn deer that was still uncertain of its legs.

“Vyrezat reliz,” Nott said, performing the same hand action he had done to get into Thyrra’s apartment. The coded panel flickered but remained glowing as the door swung open to the antechamber. Nott pointed his wand at the camera and muttered, “împiediccas.” Again, the red light flickered but remained on.

“Nott, is that meant to be turning them off?” Harry asked worriedly. Nott approached the second door and repeated, “vyrezat reliz,” lowly, before ducking through. Harry trailed after Doctor Philips through the door to see the tail end of Nott’s interference with another camera.

“It’s like I said Potter, magic and electric is like water and oil. But each circuit has a multitude of back-up actions in case there’s an interruption in the flow,” he said, eyeing Doctor Philips as she cautiously approached a glass door that stood between the two staircases. He watched her critically as she pulled a lanyard from around her neck and slowly tapped it to a black box next the doorframe. She startled when the door opened as if she had merely been going through the motions without knowing the consequences of her actions. When she disappeared through the door, Nott took off up the staircase that led to the lobby with Harry jogging to keep up. They strode confidently across the lobby that was more full now than it had been and slipped out between the foot traffic of two groups passing through the main entrance.

They strode quickly across the courtyard that was emptier than earlier. Harry supposed people had gone to classes.

“I still don’t get it,” Harry said. “And what were all those spells?”

Nott chuckled, his shoulders a bit looser, his face lighter now that they were on the home stretch.

“Well, when there’s an interruption in the flow, usually what happens in the new computer-operated systems, is that it hard resets the programme. The blip causes the computer to think there’s been a glitch, so it seeks to preserve the programme by restarting, all in an attempt to flush out whatever caused the glitch,” Nott explained. “With the older electrical boards that aren’t all ‘smart’,” he said with air quotes, “the blip in the flow shorts the circuit breaker, triggering the false safe, which almost always is the release of the locking mechanism or fuse.” He pulled his coat tight around him. “Security systems are all on the muggle online now. The Beinecke’s is for definite. So, it’s just a simple matter of resetting the entire system to the last back-up which is every midnight for servers on the East coast.”

Harry felt like he understood the words that Nott was saying, but none of it was making any sense.

“As for the spells, well, there are seven language families on this earth, without counting all the tribal and creole dialects. The spells that we were taught are Latin based. Why would the Asiatic, Hungarian or Afrikaan magical population suddenly switch to only Latin based spells when they wouldn’t have known about the Latin speaking world until a couple of centuries ago?” He chuckled again, his smile wide and free as he looked over his shoulder at Harry. Again, Harry could only stare on. He hadn’t even considered the thought before. If felt so obvious and yet here he was. “There’s a whole world of magic out there, that you have yet to explore Harry,” Nott said with a wink.

The journey back to the cemetery felt a lot shorter than it had done earlier that morning. Harry skipped through the fallen leaves, his mind abuzz with the adrenaline that still coursed through his veins and the thoughts that Nott had put there. In comparison to the other man, he felt like he’d barely scratched the surface of what magic could actually do.

They ducked behind a mausoleum, sheltered by the bow of an old oak. Nott pulled the gold cuff from within his grand coat and offered it to Harry as he had done before. He tapped his wand and with a **schwip** , Harry felt the nauseating pull of the portkey drag him home.

**_14:15pm 10 th of September, 1999 – 12 Grimmauld Place, Claremont Square, Islington, London, UK. _ **

****

Theo stumbled and knocked over a pile of books. He felt himself overbalance before a hand wrapped around his flailing arm and yanked him back into something broad and warm. His heart pounded as his chest heaved, trying to catch his breath. _I’ve had better landings._ The warmth at his back seeped through his coat, and he felt his shoulders drop from a release of tension he didn’t know he held.

“Alright?”

Nott stilled as warm breath brushed over the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. He swallowed thickly and stepped forward, physically dragging himself from the embrace.

“Ye - ” Theo cleared his throat from its too high pitch, “yeah, yeah. All good. You good?” He felt his cheeks heat as he met Harry’s obnoxiously green gaze.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than Nott had heard it previously. Harry’s eyes held his for a moment longer before Theo ducked his head at the feeling of heat building deep within him.

“So uh,” Harry ran a hand through his hair making it stand-up in deranged directions. “What next?”

“Now, I’m going to see what the deal with Draco is,” Theo said, “then later when Blaise gets back, he’ll arrange the pick-up for the manuscript.” His nerves, that had settled since they had turned their backs on the Beinecke Library, came back tenfold with the reminder of his friend’s dire situation.

Harry opened his mouth to reply when a tap came from the window. Both men turned to see a tawny owl looking sternly down at them, ruffling its wings with impatience. Harry crossed the room quickly as Theo leant against the back of one of the chairs. He watched as Harry gently guided in the bird, unfastened the note and unravelled it. He saw the exact moment when dread filled his face.

“What is it?” Theo asked in concern.

Harry swallowed, refolded the note and let out a shaky breath. He threw Theo a wan smile that didn’t quite reach his now dulled eyes.

“I’ve got to go and clear my cubicle. I’ve,” he scraped a hand through his hair again and gave a helpless laugh, holding the note aloft for Theo to see.

“I’ve been fired!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts and theories chickidees! Hope you enjoyed it!!


	10. Orenda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where I have said I'm nervous previously, doesn't compare to the nerves I feel about this chapter. I feel very much like I am throwing this at the internet, and then I'm going to go hide. It's a long one. I'm not ignoring our previous conversation about 10k, but this just couldn't be helped. There was a lot that I needed to get through. 
> 
> Also, I'm not going to be able to post as often as I have been doing over the last couple of weeks. Work will finally be starting. I'll still be writing, don't worry. I'm too invested at this point. I just wanted to give you all a heads-up.
> 
> Finally, I just wanted to say thank you to you all, for allowing me to put the ramblings of my mind on here. Even in this short time, I have learnt so much from you all. Truly your feedback is invaluable. Thank you again. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Panic/anxiety attack, death, blood, reference to terrorism. As per, let me know if I've missed any, muchos love. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Without further ado, grab your beverage and snack of choice, and I hope, beyond measure, that you enjoy this one. 
> 
> I'll see you on the other side.

**_“The truth is this,_ **

**_every monster_ **

**_you have met_ **

**_or will ever meet,_ **

**_was once a human being_ **

**_with a soul_ **

**_that was as soft_ **

**_and light_ **

**_as silk._ **

****

**_Someone stole_ **

**_That silk from their soul_ **

**_And turned them_ **

**_into this._ **

****

**_So when you see_ **

**_A monster next,_ **

**_Always remember this._ **

**_Do not fear_ **

**_the thing before you._ **

**_Fear the thing_ **

**_that created it_ **

**_Instead.”_ **

****

**_-_ ** _Nikita Gill, The Truth about Monsters_

**Chapter 10 – Orenda**

* * *

* * *

**_10:33 am, 10 th of September, 1999 – Tower Bridge, London, UK._ **

****

The concept of the man-made bridge has existed within the mind of civilisation since 3000BC...give or take a few years.

The title of the oldest bridge structure still standing, belongs to either the Tarr Steps in Exmoor, England, where the flat surfaces of the stones slabs are rumoured to be where the devil to sunbathes. Or, it is the Mycenaean Bridges that lie in the shadow of the Arkadico Villages in Greece, which are believed to be an integral part of the dead’s journey into the afterlife. The feat of structural engineering that is connecting two lands over a body of water is intrinsically poetic within human psychology. Bridges stand constant and strong, allowing life to continue over them and as a result, the bridge is regarded - universally and throughout time - as a symbol of communication, of union, and a connection between realms or worlds.

Tower Bridge has stood in the heart of London since 1894. Differing from the delicate placing of slabbed stones in Exmoor 5000 years’ prior, the construction of Tower Bridge took eight years at the hands of four-hundred and thirty-two workers, who placed eleven-thousand tonnes of steel framework that connect two Towers over the River Thames. For a century, Tower Bridge had stood silently and bore witness to the world that crossed over it. In the early nineteen-hundreds, the bridge became London’s Red Light District, with the top walkways filled to the brim with Ladies of the Night and pickpockets. In 1917, a muggle named Thomas Hans Orde-Lees jumped from the top walkway into the Thames with nothing but a black blooming cloth behind him; this made Tower Bridge the surprising birthplace of the muggle Royal Parachute Regiment and was also fundamental in convincing the muggle Royal Air Force to give parachutes to their pilots. In November of 1940, during the height of the Blitz, the wizard, Henry Bocham, gave his life protecting hundreds of people who were fleeing St Saviours Estate and Maltby Street Market; the areas had been flattened by a cluster of bombs, and many places surrounding had subsequently been set ablaze. As hundreds of wounded stumbled into the bottleneck of Tower Bridge, the roar of Luftwaffe engines grew closer, closing in to drop another round. Bochum hurtled up the stairs of the North Tower, and in a moment of blind courage, arrested the descent of the bombs that were dropped directly over them. As he diverted the final bomb, a stray bullet from a Luftwaffe caught him and he fell from the top walkway into the Thames below. There were no other casualties on the bridge that night. The first plane flew through the bridge in 1912, but in 1951, a muggle named Frank Miller flew a plane through Tower Bridge on a dare from his thirteen-year-old son, who had bet him thirty-five shillings for the act. In December of 1952, Albert Gunter was a muggle bus driver who was driving the route of the number seventy-eight across the bridge, when suddenly the road before him disappeared. The watchman on duty that day had forgotten to alert the bell and drop the gates that would stop the flow of traffic while the bridge's bascules rose. Without sparing another thought, Gunter stepped on the accelerator and managed to jump the gap, getting all twenty of his passengers safely to the other side. In 1984, a witch called Helen DeGrace perfected the fundamentals of modern transmutation, using the trajectory of the two towers to stem the flow of the Thames for a brief moment. In 1995, a group of wizards and witches dashed through Tower Bridge on brooms one night and sped along the Thames, using the cover of darkness to hide their shadows from watchful eyes. In 1997, the motorcade of the muggle United States President, Bill Clinton, was divided for twenty minutes when the bascules rose to allow a barge called ‘Gladys’ through to reach her docking appointment at St Katherine’s dock on time.

In 1999, on the morning of the 10th of September, Hermione leant against the blue guardrail of Tower Bridge’s bascules. Her hands were clasped tightly around the last vestiges of her takeaway coffee, as she looked out onto the Thames. Dappled spots of white gold twinkled upon its surface as the early morning sunlight caressed the turbulent murky water. The traffic grumbled a low continuous roar as it travelled over the bridge behind her. She had been viciously awoken that morning by the insistent sounds of tapping against her window. Hermione had opened her bleary eyes to see Taliesin’s huge grey harpy owl scowling at her through the glass. She had thrown back her covers, stumbled inelegantly out of bed, only hopping a couple of times to release the foot that had tangled in the sheet in her haste to get to the window. The owl, Siegfried, had nipped her hand affectionately as he had helped himself to the treats that were waiting on her desk. The note had been scrawled in Taliesin’s uncaring hand, asking her to meet him on Tower Bridge at ten-thirty, with no indication as to the reason why. Hermione had sworn loudly when she then realised that she only had forty minutes to get ready. She had hesitated for barely a moment before her wardrobe while she had considered the unpredictable nature of her week thus far before she had thrown on combat boots and a soft jumper and cast a quick charm to quell her fierce bed-head. She had been just about to leave Grimmauld Place when the memory of the colourful book flashed in front of her eyes for the thousandth time since she had learnt of Malfoy’s inheritance. She had rushed back upstairs to her room, scrawled a quick note to McGonagall and then dashed to the attic where the owls that Harry kept, slept. She had bribed one with treats and sent it on its way.

Then she had sprinted from the house.

She took another sip of her coffee, her mind restless as it thought over the last couple of days.

Nott and Harry would be stealing the Voynich in a few hours. As she braced herself against the cool breeze, she felt the same creeping sense of unease come over her as she had experienced the night before when she had been sat in the living room. The same unease that had doubled ten-fold upon learning of the Selkie’s disappearance.

Random events in life were usually just that – random events. And these random events, Hermione ruminated, were classified as such because they broke the chain of causality. The decision she had made that morning to go to a coffee shop that she never had been to before, was preceded by the necessity for caffeine on very little sleep and not enough time to wait in the line that usually was present in her favourite cafe, before her appointment on Tower Bridge. Her flirtatious interaction with the barista had been preceded by the fact that she had entered the shop, windswept and battling her hair that she hadn’t had time to tame fully, and the man with kind eyes had shot her a charming smile and wink.

Every decision, every event has a requirement that proceeds it, which is why it is well understood that nothing is ever truly random. And so, Hermione surmised, a ‘true random event’ is an event whereby the proceeding actions and decisions are not known or influenced by the person and are never known, thereafter. These events are few and far in-between in a person’s life: like a bird flying into a window or being struck by lightning. But if one pertains to the thesis of Chaos, then even these seemingly patternless events have a pattern of causality, however tenuous it may be; meaning that the bird would have inevitably flown into the window and one would have eventually been struck by lightning. 

And yet Hermione had become connected to a series of seemingly random events: a random bombing, a questionable creature inheritance, an apparent summoning and ‘kidnapping’, the disappearance of a Selkie and her horse? And an urgent request for the Voynich manuscript to be stolen.

And now Theodore Nott, Death Eater ally, was having tea in her living room with Harry?

(read: is it really kidnapping if it’s a spirit? Spiritnapping?)

Individually, were each of the events notable? Sure. Random? Perhaps not. Just because Hermione didn’t know the proceeding causes and actions, didn’t mean that somebody didn’t.

But two – maybe three – disappearances in the two days?

People go missing all the time. And the Selkie is in the UK whereas the spirit was in Germany, so that shouldn’t really raise any eyebrows.

Creature inheritances were… not common. (read: the administrator searching for prior records had still not surfaced from the archives and should probably now be presumed missing.)

Bombings were more common, but still not an everyday occurrence.

And to her knowledge, nobody had attempted to steal to the Voynich for centuries. It was too mysterious, too unreadable, and therefore was only considered valuable to academia.

Was it a mere coincidence that all these random, notable events had happened within the same forty-eight hours and circumference of causality as to end up in Hermione’s orbit?

Hermione dragged her eyes from the hypnotic sparkle of the water and cast her gaze to the distant London skyline. She congratulated herself on her choice of clothes as she noticed the black cloud brewing in the distance that was slowly devouring the clear sky. She had the sudden feeling like she was stood on the precipice of staring into a void, about to jump. As she eyed the darkness of the cloud, the creeping sense of unease curled its claws around her shoulders as it clung to her spine and breathed down her neck.

Nothing was ever truly a coincidence, the same way that nothing was ever truly random.

She just didn’t know the preceding chain of causality yet.

“Sorry I’m late,” said a booming Yorkshire accent behind her. Hermione started from her reverie and looked over her shoulder to see Taliesin, her partner, jog up the pavement toward her, a newspaper in hand.

“I was in the office on my way here, and Oakley and Bronwen trapped me,” he slowed his trot and leant heavily against the balustrades next to her, his long roguish hair falling into this eyes. “Word to the wise, they’re excited as anything today,” he chuckled exasperatedly, “‘Member that breakthrough they were nabbing on about Fear they found in Timor?”

The memory tickled faintly from the recesses of Hermione’s mind.

“They’ve been saying for ages that fear is an It. Not just a…” he waved his hand around, searching for the word. Unable to find it, he glanced beseechingly to her. She nodded her assent to his silent question; she vaguely remembered their original assertion that fear wasn’t just an emotion. Something like ‘emotions can be manipulated but fear had a life of its own’.

“Well apparently,” Taliesin continued, his tone changing to sound as if he were gossiping about a scandalous event, rather than a reality shifting break-through, “shit’s kicked off this morning. Something to do with accepting that some premise is true. But then if you do that and test for an entity rather than an effect, _apparently_ there’s an event taking place or something,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “I dunno, you know how they are, a bunch of weirdos who say boo to ghosts.”

Hermione observed him as he scraped his hand through his hair, huffing in amusement at his conclusion, and noted that the circles under his eyes were darker than they had been.

“You look like you haven’t slept Tal,” she commented.

He turned to her with his brows raised in accusation. “Rich coming from you lass, you look like death warmed up! I was working on the Waterloo job all yesterday, and y’know how it is, I kept turning to my partner, but then a funny thing kept happening,” he looked at her pointedly, “I remembered she’s MIA.” Though he said the words in a light tone, they held an undercurrent of censure. She opened her mouth to explain but he shook his head. “You don’t need to lass, I went to Willows. He explained he’d sent you on a side enquiry. All hush hush about it too. You catch anything good?”

Hermione shrugged, “not sure yet. Bizarre, I’ll say that much. I need to check a couple of things out first and debrief with Willows before I read you in.”

Tal made noncommittal noise as he cast his gaze searchingly up the bridge.

“Why did you ask me to meet you here?”

Tal took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks before releasing it in a short huff. His face suddenly darkened.

“Before you begin to worry about what I’m about to tell you. This is all above board. Well…” he swiped a thumb across his bottom lip as sniffed derisively. “As above board as one can be when doing something illegal.”

Hermione arched a brow and finished off the last of her coffee. “How illegal?”

“Oh, not too bad,” Tal said nonchalantly, as he picked some lint from his sleeve. “Only a couple wars in recent memory contesting the very law we’re about to break, but hey, it’s signed off by Shacklebolt and Willows so…” The casual conversational tone of his voice was offset by the severe crease between his brows and the fire that burnt in his eyes.

Hermione frowned as she processed what he was saying.

“You’re not suggesting The Statue of Secrecy are you?” she said lowly, ducking her head to try and search his eyes that were boring holes into his coat sleeve. He met her gaze suddenly, his usual friendly face was set with barely contained anger.

Taliesin had been an Unspeakable during Voldemort’s take-over of the Ministry. In the time that Hermione had worked with him, he hadn’t once volunteered to talk about it. From the glimpses of information that she had gleaned from overheard hushed conversations, during Thicknesse’s time as Minister of Magic, there had been a violent coup in the DoM, and an attempted purge of Unspeakables who had followed Voldemort’s doctrine. The battle had been bloody and long, but hidden behind cloak and dagger and had lasted for months. For a while, the DoM had been split into two factions. One run by Raine, the other championed by Augustus Rookwood. Things had been stressful for a very long time and many had lost their lives; they had all known that whoever controlled the Chambers, controlled magic, and that wasn’t an option either side were willing to concede.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he ran his teeth over his lip as he searched the bridge again. “Something’s got everyone freaked about this Waterloo business. Enough for Shacklebolt to give this a green light.” He paused to scrap his hair back and he snorted with grim humour. “And now with the shit that’s happening today…”

Hermione reeled as she struggled to keep up. “Wait, what? What are we doing here and what do you mean ‘shit that’s happening today’?” she asked, her voice growing more clipped and tense with each unanswered question.

Tal held out the paper to her. She flicked it open and felt her world tilt on its axis as she read the headline:

_The Secret Rendez Vous - Ministry vs Malfoy Heir in an unexpected turn of events._

She quickly read the article, the creeping unease on her spine turned to horror as another domino fell into place.

 _Malfoy…_ As her eyes flitted over the words, she felt the blood drain from her face as she read the confidential details of Malfoy’s predicament exposed in Skeeter’s obnoxious narrative. _What are the chances that this is another coincidence?_

Hermione looked back up to Taliesin with what felt like a plea in her eyes, as she seethed with unbridled fury.

_How did she find out?!_

_What is the Ministry doing?!_

_HEARING?!_

“I don’t know lass, the department’s buzzing. No-one knows anything, everyone’s trying to find answers. You caught the case didn’t you?” he asked worriedly.

She nodded sharply in response, her pulse racketing up as panic began to set in. _Fuck! How, why?!_ “Willows… does he-”

“He knows; he’s trying to find out what’s going on.”

“I should be there, I-”

“Right now, you have to be here. It’s me and you on this, orders from on high.”

“On what?!”

“We’re meeting the muggle version of us,” he said with false cheer.

Hermione stopped, her breath stuttering in a jagged inhale; the hand that held the newspaper fell limply to her side, the article forgotten. She searched Tal’s face, trying to see the joke or hidden meaning.

“What do you mean, ‘meeting them’?” she said slowly.

“Think they call themselves MI5. Domestic homeland intelligence for muggles. And we,” he gestured between them, “Unspeakable Granger and Unspeakable Monaghan are meeting two of their agents, _as ourselves I might add_ , to start an interagency task force,” he said in a mock-serious tone and a wide grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Dumbfounded silence settled between them while the rumbling traffic continued by, completely unaware of their plight.

“Officer’s Jay and Kilmore,” Tal offered quietly after a moment. His face had given up the momentary bout of forced happiness and now bore an expression of having something particularly sour in his mouth.

“Over the Waterloo case?” Hermione croaked. Tal nodded. “But…what?!” she exclaimed in frustrated confusion.

The flagrant hypocrisy of it was stifling, and Hermione was struggling to wrap her head around it. The wrong side of the war had fought to overturn the Statue of Secrecy – sure, it would have been to the detriment of thousands and discrimination of millions - but to denounce them with one hand to only subvert the very same law with the other because of apparent convenience, was a hard pill to swallow in the black and white lines that had set by the Post-War society. 

But then wasn’t grey legality the Department of Mysteries prerogative anyway? 

To demark an item as cursed and therefore too dangerous to be in the hands of the public, only to then use it for her own personal needs?

Because she could be trusted?

Because she knew she wouldn’t abuse the power?

Hadn’t she pushed Harry to do the very same thing the night before? Hadn’t she encouraged ‘The Chosen One’ to follow a known Death Eater ally, and less than savoury character, into an illegal operation because she wanted to know who had an interest in the Voynich?

_Does the end justify the means?_

“Head in the game Granger,” Tal grunted as he gestured with his head across the bridge. Hermione swivelled her gaze to her left, squinting against the sun slightly, to see two men casually stroll towards them. One was older, his silver hair was scraped back and his beard was neatly groomed; though his shoulders were relaxed as he ambled along, his face was tense as he observed them. His younger counterpart was equally as polished but with dark hair; his sharp eyes reflected the barely contained aggression that was coiled in his posture as they snapped between Hermione and Tal. She noted that the Agents were similarly dressed to themselves: a nod to business decorum with shirts and jumpers over rough trousers and tough boots. The only difference being, that Hermione and Tal’s appeared to be more lightweight.

The two men came to a stop before them. Nobody spoke while they assessed one another (read: they openly looked for any weaknesses - the elder gentlemen favoured his right leg over left – previous injury?).

The traffic continued to rumble as it crossed over the bridge.

“There’s a restaurant just up here,” the younger of the two said without greeting, gesturing to the area behind the Unspeakables toward St Katherine’s Dock. “I don’t know about you guys, but I could go for some coffee?” His voice held a note of uncertainty as if he were wary of the Unspeakables relationship with caffeinated beverages.

“Sounds great,” Tal said with a cheer that again, didn’t reach his eyes. He bumped Hermione’s shoulder with his as he drew himself to his full height. A stalemate ensued where neither pair wanted to lead the way (read: and turn their backs on the other). With an unspoken agreement, Tal and the younger man stepped into line together leaving Hermione to walk alongside the elder.

The journey over the bridge was slow and silent, each step measured in its relaxed stroll. The tense line of their bodies showed that each movement was exactly as controlled as it was meant to be; no-one wanted to spook someone with a sudden movement, but everyone was ready to react at a moment’s notice if someone did.

By the time they walked through the doors of a modern, glass-fronted restaurant called Vicinity, just off the lawns of St Katherine’s Dock, the tension was palpable between them. The maître d’ quickly seated them with little fuss, recognising that theirs was not a party for charming. Hermione and Tal sat next to their counterparts, neither pair willing to concede the higher ground by completely seating themselves with their backs’ exposed to the open restaurant. Hermione sat opposite the younger man, who shoulders hitched and rolled slightly as he made himself comfy in his seat.

A waiter suddenly appeared and hurried them through ordering. A strained silence fell over the group until the waiter returned to cautiously place various teapots and cappuccinos delicately on the table with a white-knuckle grip.

The elder gentlemen to Hermione’s right chuckled under his breath as the waiter scampered away, looking relieved with the more distance he put between himself and the table. Hermione arched her brow at the man, catching his eye.

“It appears that as four trained agents, none of us are being very subtle,” he explained, blowing gently on his steaming tea.

Hermione felt a twitch of amusement in the corner of her mouth where a smile threatened to spread before she contained it.

“Shall we start with introductions?” she said, finding her footing after it had been so thoroughly taken from under her ten minutes’ prior. _Taskforce. On our side,_ she reminded herself.

“I’m Jay,” said the younger man, “that’s Kilmore,” nodding to the elder man beside her. “You are?”

“Monaghan and Granger,” Tal said easily, his Yorkshire accent thick. He leant back in his seat, opening his expansive chest to fill that side of the table with his presence. Hermione took a sip of her coffee to stop herself from tutting. Working where she did and having the friends she had, she was used to ‘peacocking’ – she just wished that they had the grace to at least try and be less overt about it.

She lightly cleared her throat. “Just so we’re clear, because I’m sure this is ah…” she hesitated, trying to find a neutral means of expressing her sentiment. “I’m sure our situation is unique enough to warrant questions, but uh, who do you think we are?”

She winced as Tal threw her an exasperated look. She shrugged helplessly - _you try finding a way to ask without sounding stupid and without saying anything,_ she thought archly at him.

Jay looked between them, a bemused smile growing on his face while Kilmore settled his cup carefully back in its saucer.

“You mean magical?” he said quietly, his voice stumbling as if the seriousness of the question was alien to him.

Tal grinned ruefully, “that’d be the one.”

“Yes, we’ve been made aware, and of the sensitive nature of the information,” Kilmore offered, casting a glance at Hermione.

She nodded in concurrence. “Operating so openly like this is new for us,” she hedged, taking another sip of her drink. “You’ll have to excuse us if we’re a bit closed off.”

“That’s fair,” Jay said with a small smile, even as his eyes tightened their gaze. “Full disclosure we only were debriefed on the full nature of circumstances half an hour before we left to meet you, so you’ll have to forgive us if it hasn’t quite sunk in yet.”

Hermione looked up sharply at him in surprise, a silent ‘oh’ on her lips. Tal shifted in his seat to face Jay more.

“Tit-for-tat, full disclosure,” Tal said, “we were only informed about this task force an hour ago. Well, I was informed,” he pointed to his own chest, then his grin widened as he flicked a pointed finger to Hermione. “She found out two minutes before you guys turned up.”

Jay and Kilmore showed mirrored looks of faint surprise and amusement on their faces.

“I think that’s one thing we can all bond on then, magic or not, our governments are shit at communicating anything,” Kilmore chuckled, his deep voice resonating in his chest as he leant back in his seat – the picture of complete ease. The sleeves of his jumper pulled up slightly and Hermione spotted the beginnings of colourful tattoos on both of his wrists.

Tal caught Hermione’s eye and gestured with his head to the open restaurant behind him. She scanned the area and saw two tables had been seated full of people who chatted happily over their menus. Taking the hint, she wordlessly and wandlessly cast ‘muffliato’.

“Our superior informed us that this knowledge is only known by a select few in our government,” Kilmore continued conversationally, though Hermione saw his eyes track the interaction between the Unspeakables. His brow flickered slightly as he too glanced around the restaurant.

“The tables are sat too close for this conversation, we’ve made it so we can talk freely,” Hermione explained awkwardly as she battled with the heavy feeling in her chest that was trying to prevent her from saying so.

As Kilmore’s settled into his seat with a mild approving look, his words finally processed in Hermione’s mind.

“Wait, you said a select few in your government know?”

“Yeah,” Jay said, “only the upper heads though. My hand’s still cramping from the amount of paperwork they made us sign.”

“The PM and the Crown, I assume,” said Kilmore.

“But- ”

Hermione stopped abruptly at the sound of Tal’s aggressive snort. He met her eyes with a bitter smirk.

“No muggle - fancy headwear or not - must know of our existence except, apparently, the ones who already know,” he said conversationally.

Hermione frowned as she looked down into her drink, and re-evaluated the situation as if it were a problem to solve. The tension at the table began to mount as no-one spoke following Tal’s pointed tone.

“If you think about it, the practicalities of running two worlds simultaneously alongside one another for centuries without the majority civilisation knowing of the other’s presence is a tall order. Some communication is logically the only way it could be done Tal,” Hermione said diplomatically.

“You came ‘round quickly,” he commented. She snapped her eyes up to his with a rebuttal on her lips, before he waved her off. “I hear you – I do. It just smarts, is all. Too soon.” Tal gave a small shake of his head and averted his gaze to his drink. Hermione looked back to the muggles who were watching them with keen interest. 

Before she could say anything to relieve the atmosphere that hovered over them, Tal shifted in his seat, his dark expression lifting into his familiar focus that Hermione knew and trusted. “Anyway,” he breezed, “you guys got any idea why we’re teaming up on this?”

“We’ve been operating on Critical threat level,” Jay said with a heavy sigh, wiping a hand down his face. “But we never saw this coming. SIS was focusing on the happenings over the in the Gulf, meanwhile, we were focusing on making sure The Troubles stay quiet. Waterloo came out of nowhere.” He swallowed heavily and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips as his gaze danced between the Unspeakables and his partner. “We never saw this coming,” he repeated helplessly.

Kilmore twirled the spoon that lay on his saucer.

“The wires were silent. We’re still scouring previous intelligence and all incoming sources, but we’ve got nothing. Not a whisper. No one’s taken credit for it. We were just about to conclude that this was a one-off, some random fucker, when Scotland Yard gets a call from the City of London Police, saying that they’ve just picked up a bloke, drunk as a skunk, who’s ranting a load of bollocks about hocus pocus and how he knows stuff about Waterloo.” Kilmore took a delicate sip of his tea, the small china cup looked altogether too small in his large hands. “Anyway, Detectives get down there. Verify that he’s not entirely off his rocker and might actually be a bit of a catch, take him back with them to hold him tight and give us a call. Higher-ups have a look and something about what he says sets them off. I don’t know what it was yet, but it must have been something big because we deal with crazy people chatting about magic or whatever powers that be, all the time. Next thing you know, we’re signing our lives away and now we’re here with you two.”

Jay shook his head, as if in disbelief before adding, “honestly this whole thing, as gut-wrenching as it to admit, was almost closed in a neat file. Now it feels we’ve woken up in some sort of fever dream.”

“You got that right. Either way, with regards to the case, that’s all we know; that our guy is sitting pretty in Scotland Yard, giving everyone the creeps,” Kilmore finished with a half-cocked grin under his immaculate beard while Jay huffed a laugh into his coffee. 

Hermione shared a heavy look with Tal. Whoever this man was, obviously was saying the right things to grab the attention of whoever knew of actual magic. Otherwise, Hermione was sure they wouldn’t have risked the gamble of exposure.

_More questions with no answers._

“What about on your end?” Jay asked, glancing with wide eyes between the Unspeakables.

“We were initially on the scene,” Hermione said. “We received an intel report of an attack on a list of sites. By the time the report had come through though, Waterloo had been hit. As soon as we could get in there, we assessed the scene. The suspect used magical means of detonation – a spell of some kind,” she amended, her brow furrowing as she tried to recall the details. It seemed like so long ago that it had happened. “We concluded that the caster was killed in the explosion due to the incendiary nature of the spell.”

“From there,” Tal easily cut it, knowing that that was where Hermione’s involvement had ended. “We put our law enforcement department on intel gathering and trying to uh, assist your lot with anything.”

“Oh, so there’s already a colla-”

“Not quite,” Tal interrupted with a placating smile to Jay. “They’re undercover.”

A comically exaggerated expression of comprehension dawned on Jay’s face. Hermione bit back a smile as Kilmore rolled his eyes and tutted into his tea.

“But we’ve hit a dead-end,” Tal continued, “nothing new since.”

Kilmore tilted his head slightly, “where was the initial intel from?”

“Overheard hearsay reported by one of the informants. He was brought in yesterday and questioned. But he couldn’t give a clear description of who he’d heard it from. And eh,” he shifted in his seated and frowned at the table before looking back up. “Other means of attempting to clear up the memory have been unsuccessful. He was too drunk.”

A quiet settled over to the table as everyone processed the gathered information.

“By deductive reasoning,” Jay questioned softly, his face set in deep consternation, “would it a be fair suggestion to say that your world has more of a direct line to the suspect?”

“What do you mean?” Hermione’s brow furrowed as she looked to him.

“Well I mean, we’ve got ours and SIS’ net spread wide. Neither of us has managed to get any nibbles in terms of intel. The only actionable intel came from your side… so what I mean is, can we, therefore, deduce that the suspect hid in your world, ergo, leaving all the breadcrumbs in your world?”

Hermione spun her now empty mug. It was a fair deduction but –

“But your world is where the first major breadcrumb was found so…”

Hermione nodded her agreement to Taliesin’s statement.

“And so we arrive at the motive for a joint task force,” said Kilmore loftily from the corner.

Hermione settled back into her seat, laughing quietly at the elder’s glibness.

“I take it we’re going to interview the man in Scotland Yard?” she inquired.

“Aye, we’re booked to go see him at one. One of the Detective’s ordered a psychologist who’s in there now, he was concerned about capacity. We’ve got a couple of things we need to do in the meantime but we can meet you there?”

“No, that’s perfect,” Hermione replied quickly with an eager smile as her pulse skipped a beat. _Malfoy._ This would give her time to track down Raine and find out what had happened to her charge.

Once Kilmore had settled the bill. The group left in a much lighter air than they had arrived in, laughing amicably over something benign that Tal had brought up. They parted ways, exchanging pleasantries and as soon as Jay and Kilmore had disappeared, Hermione and Tal set off with co-ordinated fierce determination to get some answers.

**_11:45 am, 10 th of September, 1999 - _ ** **_Department of Mysteries, British Ministry_ **

“Surely there must have been some sort of arrangement between the muggle intelligence services and ours? This can’t be the first time that something like this has happened Tal?” Hermione lamented as she stepped off the elevator onto the polished floors of level nine as Tal followed close behind.

“If there has been, it’s not common knowledge lass” he grunted, sidestepping an Unspeakable trainee who was wearing large, light-shielding goggles that were too big for his face. Hermione zig-zagged through the corridors passing by the various offices. Tal had been right, the department was electric with hurried movement and conversation. All around them, Unspeakables of every rank were running through the halls or bent low over reports, all with the same set blank expression of focus.

“I need to check in on the Aurors, see if they’ve caught anything. I’ll meet you in the Atrium at quarter-to-one?” Tal said as he started walking backwards away from her down an adjacent corridor. Hermione nodded her agreement, waved her goodbye and set off.

While it was very easy to get lost in the maze that made up the DoM, Hermione had learnt quickly that it was simple enough to find someone, if one knew where to look. She reached her destination and knocked on the open door of the DoM’s archive warehouse. When she got no response, she peaked her head in, to see, in vain hope, if she could easily spot Tin. Seeing the empty room beyond, she stepped in to begin her search.

The Head Archivist, Tin, was a small, round man, who barely reached past Hermione’s shoulders, and whose likeness never failed to remind her of a mole. Tin was not his real name, she knew that much; it was a rather affectionate nickname from what she had gathered, considering that Tin avidly collected tinned containers and used them to help store magical items (read: Report 478 – The advantages of using an alloy to negate magical properties, by H. S. Demkin, 1745). Tin was, without a doubt, a brilliant Archivist. His domain was an incoherently organised warehouse that contained all manner of lively and dangerous mysteries that he had to regularly coo into submission. As the Head Archivist of the DoM, it was Tin’s business to know where everything and everyone was at all times so that in the event of an emergency (read: one of the cursed items decided to start another revolt), Tin would know who was nearby to help get the warehouse back in order.

Hermione tentatively stepping into the foyer of the warehouse. The room itself was similar to a messy depo: papers were stuffed into too full drawers, cabinets were bursting with files and scrolls, a huge table lay centre of the room and was covered in careless ink splots, abandoned quills and half-formed notes. The far wall of the room was made-up of French doors that led out on to a balcony that overlooked the expansive warehouse below. The warehouse itself was so large, that she couldn’t see the farthest point - it was too shrouded in the shadow of distance. Hermione stepped through the doors and craned her neck, while balancing on her tip-toes, to try and get a better look over the myriad of tall shelves and boxes. From the light of the floating candles that lit the considerable space, she could see movement in the aisles and watched as a couple of archivists bustled along, head in their work. She quickly accepted, yet again, that of all the times that she had attempted to find Tin this way, none had ever been successful. And so she began to make her way down the rickety spiral metal staircase that led off the side of the balcony.

Feet firmly secure on the warehouse floor, Hermione set off in the direction that she saw one of the other archivists disappear a moment before. She started down a gloomy aisle, following the cold light that shone in the distance. As she got closer, she could make out a young woman who she had seen working there before: _Katelin? Kathryn?_

“Excuse me?” Hermione called. The woman jumped back, hand clutched to her chest in shock.

“I’m terribly sorry!” Hermione rushed to say, hands outstretched to calm the woman who offered her an embarrassed smile.

“It’s okay, lost in my own world,” the woman laughed demurely, her soft accent baring a hint of French. “How can I help you, Unspeakable Granger?”

“I’m looking for Tin.”

“Ah, he said he was dealing with the records today.”

“Right, how can I get there?”

“Oh turn out of here on to the main corridor and keep going. You’ll know when you get there,” she said with a conspiratorial smile.

Hermione offered her thanks, backtracked her steps and started down the main corridor as the woman had said. All the stress and exhaustion of the last couple of days began to melt away as she marvelled at the sights around her. The towering shelves above were packed with wonders of exotic curiosities and rarities. Her gaze caught on a twenty-foot golden statue of Anubis, its staff tall and proud. She was admiring the way the floating flames reflected on its surface when she noticed that its head was turning to watch her in turn as she passed on by. Quickening her step to escape its gaze, she saw a line of, what appeared to be, white fluffy cotton balls that were the size of basketballs, making squeaking noises as they crossed the corridor and disappeared down an aisle. As she passed another stack, a sudden flash caught her eye and she saw two full suits of armour sword fighting with flamingos.

It was a moment more before quiet music met her ears. As she navigated around what could only be described as a quorum of gargoyles who were avidly arguing over lampshades, the music grew louder. She could pick out the sombre pluck of piano keys against a swell of strings. As she grew closer, so did the intensity of its crescendo, with a twisting melody of the violins wrapping around the arpeggios of the piano keys.

She peered down the corridor it seemed to be coming from. The walls were lined with vinyl records that were all floating, trapped in a diaphanous web. The corridor itself was organised to resemble a living room with low-lit floor lamps, plush rugs and red comfy sofas. Stood centre of it all, was Tin, his arms stretched high as his hands conducted the tempo of the music. Hermione ducked quickly to avoid a record that drifted slowly passed her head to join the miasma of shifting records above, that danced to the twitch of Tin’s wand. Hermione settled into the nearest chair as the wash of a sorrowful note cascaded over her, raising goosebumps on her skin. The melody was longing, hopeful yet so terribly broken. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat and her mind drifted while she waited for Tin, not wanting to disturb him during a complex casting.

While she knew she needed to debrief Raine about everything she had learnt over the last couple of days, she couldn’t stop the nagging sensation that came from deep within her, that needed to know what was happening with Malfoy. In passing, she had assumed that this need was because she felt responsible for him in some way. That because he was her case, she was responsible for his well-being and so, she assumed, she was perceiving the unexpected machinations of the Ministry to be a threat to someone who had been left in her care.

The orotund ensemble of the orchestra quelled a moment, leaving only the steady placement of the piano and a singular yearning violin entwined around its constant chords.

Every time Malfoy’s situation had crossed her mind, she had wondered whether he would do the same in her position. If roles were reversed. Would he care for her well-being? Would he leave her to die? Would he leave her to suffer the pain in that horrid cell alone?

And every time she had concluded that yes, he would.

_He’s done it before._

But now with the threat of something more… Now with the obvious interference of the Ministry, those questions still bounced around her mind but they were now more akin to a weak convincing argument. Would Malfoy interfere on her behalf now or would he leave her to the dogs?

_Would he care?_

The lone violin was joined with a chorus of rising cello, the piano emboldened with firm chords underpinning its arpeggio as they wrapped around one another, rising towards their crescendo. They were out of synch with one another, and yet their discordant harmony painted a song of opposites, with the melody passing between the two with ease.

Hermione knew what troubled her now, the gnawing sensation deep within her. She had always prided herself for being brave but as the sensation had grown over the last hour, she struggled to admit to herself what she knew to be true. She struggled because every time she got close, the acrid taste of bile filled her tongue. Every time she did, she saw those silver eyes stare down at her as she screamed for help.

The crescendo breached in euphoric tragedy, leaving only the tremolo of the strings to wait for the helpless call of the piano keys.

Against her better judgement, she cared… And as she finally put definition the gnawing inside, she indescribably knew that it would somehow be the death of her.

“Unspeakable Granger?”

Hermione blinked her unseeing eyes and focused on the man before her. Tin had finished his conducting, the spell fully cast. The music still played above, the lone violin sang desperately between every distant, soft piano chord as if it were trying to will it back.

She cleared her throat to move the emotion that had built there, “I didn’t want to disturb you. It’s uh,” she looked above at the mess of swirling records entangled in the silken weaves of magic, “incredibly beautiful magic. All of it. What is this?”

“All these records are the first recordings of pieces of music,” The silvery light of the spell reflected in Tin’s shrewd eyes as he looked up in admiration. “As you know, regardless of whether or not the composer was magical, emotion always holds a note of the mystic. The first recordings of these pieces capture the emotion, be that heart-break, anger, joy. Over time, the magic gets restless, warps the records you see?” He leant over the sofa to pick up a twisted disk. “So now and again, you have to let them out, and when they go together, they create more music,” he looked above. “This one’s my favourite. It’s called ‘The Beginning of the End,’ movement one through to seven.”

“It’s beautiful,” Hermione whispered as the strings finally caught the piano, wrapping its weak notes in a swell of bass. Slowly the piano began to play, rising in tempo and falling into harmony with the now exuberant strings. At long last, they peaked together, before settling into a gentle sway in perfect partnership.

“What can I help you with anyway?” Tin said, distractedly.

“I’m looking for Willows,” she said with equal quietude, not wanting to disturb the symphony.

“Righto, follow me,” Tin said, and with a final look up at the spell, he turned and led Hermione out to the main corridor. He took a left, and with his quick waddle, led them deeper into the belly of the warehouse. Hermione’s heart was too heavy to admire the stacks as she had done before.

It wasn’t until she heard a chorus of hissing whispers as if she had stumbled upon a writhing pit of snakes, did she pay more attention to her surroundings. As Tin turned down another aisle, Hermione saw that the source of the hissing were portraits that covered every space of the walls of the new aisle they were headed. An ominous silence fell around them as she began to pass through, every step heavy with the feeling of hundreds of eyes that watched. At the end of the aisle, lay a door that Tin opened with a tap of his wand.

“Wait here a moment,” he said as he stepped into the room. He left the door wide open and Hermione watched as the small space lit up when Tin stepped over the threshold. He leant over a wide drafting table, his canny eyes squinting as he held his face close to the surface, peering at the details only known to him.

“Willows is on his way back through the Chambers by the looks of it. If you run, you should be able to catch him in the corridor as he comes through,” he said speculatively. Hermione released a quick disappointed breath. _Fun,_ she thought sarcastically.

“Thanks Tin, if I turn left at the top of here and carry on straight, I’ll get back right?”

He chuntered his agreement, his attention already elsewhere on the table before him.

With that, Hermione filled her lungs and took off in a sprint.

She streamed down the aisle, hopping over the trailing cotton balls who were making their return journey, passed the now quarrelling quorum of gargoyles with a hop and a skip, and put on a burst of extra speed to zip passed the watching Anubis. She vaulted up the rickety staircase, her lungs burning from the air she gulped in, her footsteps reverberating loudly off of the metal steps. She threw open the Archive door and slipped out into the corridor, her boots slapping heavily against the polished surface. She dodged and slalomed through the busy corridor, trying her best to not run into anyone who was already travelling at speed themselves.

Hermione broke free of the office corridor and skidded to a halt in front of the door to the Chambers that was slowly creaking open. She doubled over, her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath when she saw two soft leather boots come into her vision and stop before her.

“Little bird?”

Hermione released a measured breath, attempting to relax her pulse as she straightened. Raine stood before her, his head tilted quizzically.

“Need to debrief – Germany – Malfoy - and I got more.”

One of Raine’s perfect high brows arched impossibly as he assessed her.

“Office,” was all he said before he swept around her and strode away with his long, elegant gait.

Hermione fell into step behind him and watched from his tall shadow as the busy corridor naturally parted to make way for him to pass. The door of his office swung open before he arrived, welcoming him through.

“Shut the door,” he said over his shoulder as he breezed across the room. By the time Hermione had turned from doing so, he had lowered himself into the imposing wingback chair, his feet propped up on the desk. He watched her attentively with his dark piercing eyes as she sat in the chair opposite him.

After a moment of quiet, he spoke.

“Did you get that coffee as I told you to?”

“Yes, and several more since.”

“Good.” His eyes flicked between hers, his fingers steepled under his chin. Hermione was practically vibrating with all the questions she had, but from previous experience, she knew she’d have to wait until Raine got his questions out of the way first.

“What did you find in Germany?”

Hermione tried to calm the adrenaline that ran through her body. She stretched her neck from side to side and re-told every detail she could remember: from the Kitsune, Bill’s story and the theory of their guardianship, to the Temple of Ignis, the Summoning and Bill’s dealings with inferi. Raine sat silently throughout, his blank expression giving no impression as to his thoughts.

“Theories?” he asked when she’d finished.

“I agree with the Curse Breakers. Someone went there with the intent of kidnapping, for want of a better word, whatever spirit lay in that temple. The timing of the disappearance of the Will-o’-the-wisp is convenient and the Temple is the Temple of Ignis, I’d say that the spirit was the fire of the Will-o’-the-wisp. They put it into a body and walked it out,” she clasped her hands in her lap and frowned down at them. “How the inferi tie into this I’m not sure. Bill seemed to think that the forest was making them, but I don’t understand why or how that could be.”

Raine hummed quietly as he turned his gaze to stare unseeingly through his desk. Hermione jumped slightly as he set his fireplace alight with a twitch of his finger.

“It’s an interesting hypothesis, don’t you think?” While his resonate timbre was light with curiosity, Hermione suppressed a shiver at the sinister undercurrent that lingered like a threat.

“What is?”

“The forest is an ecosystem, no?”

Hermione frowned slightly, “yes.”

“The Black Forest, in particular, is a delicate mesh of nature and natural magic, yes?”

Hermione nodded hesitantly; the creeping sense of unease was back in full force, slithering ice-cold pricks of nerves down her spine.

“Think of Yellowstone in America: the rivers were flooding, the vegetation couldn’t grow, the animals were leaving. The park was dying. So after however many years, they reintroduced wolves. The wolves hunted the elk, which in turn minimised the elk grazing habits, which allowed for the vegetation to grow wild once more, which then slowed and cleaned the flow of the rivers, allowing for more animals to return to the park. That is the power of One in a chain. The wolves saved Yellowstone.” He motioned slowly with his finger toward the fire that crackled merrily in the hearth. “Now what happens when you have a chain as complicated as that of the Black Forest, where magic and nature are interlaced around one another, and you remove a kink in that chain?”

Hermione’s hands tightened where they rested on the arms of the chair. “The effect cascades.”

“Yes, but magic is…” he cast his eyes off into the fire, his lips pursed in thought. “Nature is intelligent, magic is intuitive. So when the chain in nature is broken, the effect cascades; but when the chain in magic is broken – what happens then?”

“Well if it is intuitive, surely it would try to fix itself.”

Raine turned his raven eyes back to her, his silence acting as his response.

“So if we suppose that the Will-o’-the-wisp was part of the chain, the magic of the forest is trying to fix the break…with inferi?” Hermione shook her head in confusion, “I don’t see the logic in that.”

Raine stood suddenly making Hermione jump again.

“Neither do I, but I bet the answer is going to be a good one,” he said cheerily, a wide grin spreading across his face as he walked over to one of the numerous bookcases that lined the walls of his office. He stopped before one that housed row upon row of jars in all shapes and sizes and pulled one down from the shelf. He tucked it into the crook of his arm to pry off the lid as he ambled back to the desk.

“What’s the plan with Germany then?” he said absently. Hermione was about to answer when he interrupted once more. “Want one?” Raine held out the jar to her, inches from her face.

“What is it?”

“Strawberry laces.”

Hermione shot him a questioning look as she reached into the jar and pulled out the red confectionary; he shrugged innocently as he picked his own, dismissing her unspoken question. He sat with a flounce back in his seat and placed the jar between them on the desk.

“As of right now, Bill and the other curse–breakers are leading the direction of the case in terms of the forest. I’m going to do what I can to see if I can somehow find out who’s visited the region recently,” she reported as she chewed around the saccharine lace. “It’s the only thing I can think to do without a direction to start looking.”

“Very well. Did you say Malfoy earlier? Do _you_ have any answers?” Raine settled his dark eyes on her expectantly, whilst he continued to chew on his lace.

“ _I_ don’t have any answers; I’ve only just found out. I was hoping _you_ knew what was going on?” She tried to keep her voice level while her heart fluttered in her chest. The claws of the creeping unease dug further into her spine.

“Well that’s annoying,” Raine huffed as he savagely tore at the red sweet. His demeanour darkened drastically all of a sudden as if the black cloud she had seen earlier hung over his head. “No, I haven’t heard anything, I found out through the fucking paper.”

“How have they managed to keep this so quiet? The Ministry is as airtight as a paper bag.”

Raine made a low noise in the back of his throat while a lock of black hair fell into his eyes.

“Because they didn’t want anyone to know Little Bird. This is a power play.”

Hermione frowned, “I don’t think it’s just that.”

“Why?”

“Because the timing,” she straightened her posture in her seated position to lend credence to the theory she had zero evidence to suggest. “It’s too much of a coincidence. This and Germany, and everything else!”

Raine paused mid-chew and quirked an eyebrow at her. “What ‘everything else’?” His voice rumbled, toeing the line of the darkness he had sunk further into.

Hermione spent the next ten minutes recounting the conversation she had had with Nott and Harry the night previous, detailing what they had known of the Selkie, the horse’s disappearance and the Voynich operation. Raine stared blankly at the surface of his desk, twirling the remnants of the lace between his long fingers.

“You see? You add in Waterloo, and now Malfoy, and it’s too much,” she said in almost a pleading tone.

“When this man, Nott you say?” Hermione nodded, “after he’s gotten the manuscript, then what?”

“Harry’s going to follow the transaction, see who they are.”

Raine slowly placed the last of the sweet into his mouth while still lost in thought. Just about when Hermione thought she could stand the silence no further, Raine tutted flippantly.

“Well, this is a bother.”

“So you agree?” Hermione pressed.

Raine sucked on his tooth, he eyes tightening their blank gaze. “I’ll admit, I have my own suspicions about a couple of events we have discussed, but when you lay all of them out like that, it’s certainly possible that they’re connected. However,” he reached forward and plucked another lace from the jar and used it to point accusingly at Hermione, “do not use this as confirmation of your theory. Prove it, Little Bird. Assume they are not from here on out, otherwise, you run the risk of confirmation bias and searching for zebras when you should have been looking for horses all along.”

Hermione quirked her head, thrown by the sudden equine metaphor. Raine huffed a quick laugh and leant back in his chair.

“Though they are few and far in-between, sometimes Little Bird, it really is just a coincidence.”

Her rebuttal died a death before its utterance. He had a point – as loathe as she was to admit it. And though every fibre of her being was telling her that something more was at play, Hermione also was reminded of the numerous times that they had been lectured on this throughout their training. Trying to investigate and control the unexplainable and unexplored areas of reality was a nuanced art of accepting the unimaginable to be true; the flip of that coin was the ability to see normality through the fantastical. Sometimes, with the nature of the position they held, it was all too easy for an Unspeakable to assume something more about a case, and as such, overlook the easily explainable facts.

“Is that all for now Little Bird?” Raine asked, leaning forward as if about to stand. “Only I promised to look in on Bronwen and Oakley before the trial – they’re rather hysterical today,” he added with an affectionate smile.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hermione righted her clothes as she stood and made to leave when - “Wait!” Forgotten panic flooded her system once again. “The trial! I should be there, but Scotland Yard! Oh m-”

“Hermione, you can do nothing for him now.”

She froze, stricken by the finality of his words. Raine came around the desk and stopped in front of her, his gaze watchful, dancing between her eyes.

“ _You_ can’t do anything in that room. It’s a full Wizengamot hearing. _You_ have no power in there.” A slow smirk spread across his lips, lending him a feral air. “But I can. Continue with Waterloo please – I assume that’s what you’re referring too, with Scotland yard?”

“Yes, that’s where the suspect is,” she nibbled the inside of the lip. “You’re going to go?”

“Yes,” Raine said stepping around her to head towards the door.

Hermione followed him out.

“The muggles…” she started, but hesitated, uncertain of what she wanted to say. Raine quirked an eyebrow at her over his shoulder in question as they started to make their way down the busy corridor.

“I just – why? After everything, why?” Her voice strained with the plea of the questions.

“We work with muggles all the time,” Raine sniffed, nodding to a group senior Unspeakables as he passed.

“Undercover yes. This is different and you _know_ it,” Hermione couldn’t help the sharp edge that affected her tone as the frustration of the morning bubbled over the surface.

Raine suddenly whirled around and loomed over her with his imposing dark figure.

“Pray tell, Unspeakable Granger, how is this different?”

The urge to step away from him was overwhelming.

But Hermione had long learnt the lesson of never conceding ground to a man who thought himself superior.

“If muggles find out of our existence naturally then so be it, we wipe their memories. But it is forbidden to offer such information without familial relationship…sir.” She tipped her chin up to him and squared her shoulders while her heart thumped wildly in her chest.

“Do you have a problem with working with muggles Granger?” His voice was like ice that crackled ominously under her feet, threatening to plunge her to her grave.

She reared back, appalled at the implication. “Of course not! It just feels unsavoury to not acknowledge the double-standards of the situation, when the other of our priorities is going to a hearing very soon because he fought for the side who wanted to abolish the law that I am breaking, with the blessing from the very judge who presides over his case!”

The corridor around them had fallen silent, save for the echo of her risen voice off of the polished walls.

Hermione stood resolute, her chest heaving, her fists clenched at her sides. She knew she had crossed a line and she could feel the mortification growing in her chest. She had gotten so swept up in the injustice of it all, and then for Raine to insinuate that her aversion was due to her discriminating was beyond measure.

She planted her feet, securing her footing, assuming a duelling position, doubling down on her stance. _Come what may._

Raine stood still as a statue. His baleful dark eyes pierced through her. He placed his hands in his pockets and took a slow, threatening step into her space. He slowly stooped his tall form only to lower his face menacingly close to hers.

“Good.” He growled sinisterly, his eyes flashing with murder. “Fucking do something then.”

Hermione felt the subtle disturbance of air around her before she processed Raine’s dark silhouette stalking away from her. She let out a shuddering breath and unclenched her trembling hands.

_What on earth does that mean? Do something! What the fu-_

“Not sure if that was the smartest play kid.” Hermione looked over to see that one of the Senior Unspeakables who had come to stand next to her, his gaze fixed on severe lines Raine’s disappearing form.

**_13:15pm, 10 th of September, 1999 – Scotland Yard, Victoria Embankment, Westminster, London, UK. _ **

Four sets of heavy booted footfalls made their way through the thinly carpeted office. Hermione noticed that the people who sat working in the formal business space, only cast them cursory glances, seemingly satisfied with whatever judgement they arrived at before they continued with their work. She inhaled deeply before releasing it in a long measured breath in an attempt to quell the burgeoning flutter of anxiety she could feel crawling into the fringes of her awareness. Tal threw her another worried look. Ever since she had met him in the atrium of the Ministry with still trembling fingers, and had refused to disclose what had happened, he’d been checking her over.

She refused to meet his eyes again.

He’d hear about it eventually - of that she had no doubt. For a covert operation, Unspeakables were notorious gossips. She had decided that until that time came, she would focus on the task at hand. Because if she didn’t…

If she didn’t, she’d scream.

_Inhale._

Kilmore and Jay led the way across the tepid office. They had met the Unspeakables out the front, as per their prior arrangement. Kilmore had made a call on his phone, a concept that Tal had been amusingly befuddled by, and had gotten the all-clear from the Detective watching over their suspect. Hermione mused as they walked in-unit toward the place where the suspect was being held, that in the space of just a couple of hours, all four of them looked as if they were ready to call it a day. She didn’t know the details of what had happened with the Agents, something about bureaucracy and politics; there hadn’t been enough time to get the details from Tal about his time, but what little he had said, alluded to complete carnage in the DMLE.

_Exhale._

Kilmore tapped the windows of an office as he passed. The door ahead of them quickly swung open showing a woman with a magnificent mane of black curled hair.

“Time do you call this?” she demanded, her harsh borough accent lent to the accusatory tone.

“It’s not like he’s going anywhere, we’re only fifteen minutes late,” Kilmore shot back. The woman scoffed.

“Yeah he hasn’t, but I have! I swear K, you get worse with age.” Before Kilmore could reply she had turned to Hermione and Tal, offering her hand with a curt smile. “Detective Barnett, you are?”

“G and M,” Jay said, smoothly interrupting Hermione as she took the Detective's hand.

“Right, good to know. Come along then.”

_Inhale._

Detective Barnett skirted around Kilmore, file in hand, and led them through a series of coded doors that took them well away from the main populous of the office.

“He’s been quiet today, was pretty monosyllabic with the psychologist.”

“What’s the doc’s verdict?” Jay asked.

“That he’s exhibiting signs of paranoia and delusions of grandeur, as well as intermittent bouts of volatility. She wants to come back and run a...” Barnett opened the file eyeing the notes as she walked, “PCL-R and redo the mental capacity assessment.”

Hermione and Tal exchanged dower looks, both lost on the details of the conversation.

“Basically guys, I’m not sure how much sense you’re going to get from him.”

“Noted,” Kilmore replied, “his name?”

Barnett checked the file again.

_Exhale._

“Enos Ollivander, twenty-seven years old.”

The Unspeakables shared another sharp look. _Ollivander, Sacred Twenty-Eight._ Hermione lamented quietly her lack of knowledge on their family tree. Twenty-seven couldn’t be Garrick Ollivander’s son, but she couldn’t guess where he fell within the family.

“Here we are, I’ll leave you to it,” Barnett caught Kilmore’s arm as he reached for the handle of the door she’d gestured to. “Behave yeah? Follow the rules K.”

“Of course,” he said breezily, flashing her a charming smile. “Don’t I always?”

Barnett scrutinised him a moment more before she turned to Jay imploringly. “Please?”

It was only when Jay nodded his assent, did Barnett hand over a small piece of paper and step away from the group.

“The code,” she gestured with her head. “You’ve got half an hour before I’ve got to get him moving for his next medical,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away.

“Why so many medicals?” Tal asked.

Jay shuffled to the side of the doorframe while Kilmore began to input the passcode.

“Whole thing about prisoner maltreatment and best practice. Got to make sure things are way above board in situations like this, make sure they don’t have any defence whatsoever when it comes to trial,” he said with a shrug. “What do you lot do?”

Tal barked a laugh.

“Not this,” Hermione replied.

_Inhale._

“Enos Ollivander I presume?” Kilmore said grandiosely as he stepped through the door. Hermione followed Tal through, leaving Jay to close it behind them.

“Oh good, are you the half time show?” said the slight man who was cuffed to the table. A bitter smile spread across his handsome face. “Really, it’s a wonder that your kind still survives, you’re terribly… uncivilised.”

“That we are,” Kilmore agreed with a grave nod of his head, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table, while Jay took his post in the far corner. “But we got you beat though didn’t we ol’ chap,” he said with an easy grin.

_Exhale._

Hermione took the spare seat next to Kilmore, noting the lack of cameras in the room. Enos’ eyes darted over the party, lingering on all their faces for a moment before moving on. She relaxed her shoulders when she saw no sign of recognition in his face as he’d looked at her. It was an unfortunate quandary, being part of the Golden trio and plastered on the front of the newspaper whilst also trying to be an Unspeakable. And while Hermione often wished for anonymity, actually meeting someone who was supposedly from the magical world who didn’t recognise her at least partly, was suspicious.

Enos scoffed and leant back in his seat, affecting a nonchalant pose to accompany his arrogant drawl.

“I’m allowing you all to believe you’re in charge. It’s highly amusing. It’s like going to the zoo to watch monkey’s play house.”

“Is that so?” said Jay.

“Of course, these,” he lifted his cuffed hands in gesture, “may work on muggles like you, but won’t keep me here long.” He smirked, his eyes darting between them all. “I’m here because I allow it.”

“Riiight, ‘cause you’re the magic man aren’t you?” Kilmore said with laughter in his voice.

Suddenly Enos slammed his hands against the table; the **bang** reverberated around the small confines of the room.

“Yes,” he hissed, spittle flying from his clenched teeth, his face a picture of fury. “I am.”

_Inhale._

Hermione studied Enos, noting how the cut of his noble features melted back into the relaxed arrogant smirk as quickly as they had become the twisted grimace moments before. 

“So tell me, magic man,” Kilmore continued unaffected. “What do you know of the attack on Waterloo?”

Enos released a rich chuckle, “not much I’ll be honest with you. I wasn’t there, obviously.” He raised his hands again in presentation. “But I do know that I am enjoying this performance between you all. This, ‘I’m the hero, you’re the bad guy, we’re going to save the world’ air of superiority that you all carry yourselves with. It’s endearing, truly.”

“You don’t think you’re the bad guy?” Tal said from somewhere behind Hermione.

“Oh my gracious no!” Enos laughed again, “No, no, _we’re_ the saviours, _you’re_ the bad guys.”

_Exhale._

“How do you figure that? Your lot killed sixty innocent people, all told. Plenty still wounded. How does that make us the bad guys?” Kilmore demanded and Hermione noted heat in his expression for the first time.

“Because sixty is a drop in the ocean compared to the amount that you have killed and will kill in the future. Your kind will ruin this world. You’ve already started. Poisoning the oceans and killing the trees. You think this is your sandbox, your toy to break. Millions. You have killed, millions. And you will kill billions more.” He leant forward in his chair, his arrogant mask slipping in cold fury once again. “So don’t cry to me about sixty souls, unless you’re willing to count the rest!”

_Inhale._

“My kind,” Kilmore repeated. “Muggles right?”

Enos laughed bitterly, “what? I mean, yes, muggles are _your_ kind because you yourself are a muggle but that’s not what I refer too. No, that thinking is terribly reductive and juvenile really. No, your kind, as in Antediluvian.”

A heavy pause stretched out in the room. Hermione saw Kilmore turn to look at her from the corner of her eye.

“If we are Antediluvian, what does that make you?” she asked.

A shark-like grin spread across his face. “Let’s just call us Enlightened.”

_Exhale._

“Someone want to explain what this Antedil-crap is?” Jay demanded from the back.

“Ironically dear boy, it is a person or type of people who are stuck in the past.” Enos leant back in his chair again. “Our worlds aren’t so different you know. Both stuck in the same self-destructive cycles. This tribe versus that tribe, this system versus that. Competition and selfish gain. Just slap a different name on it, it’s all the same establishment. Broken, twisted, decaying with age and stuck in antiquated ideals. Us verse them. Heroes and Villains. Our worlds live in the past; repeat the same party line and call themselves radical. Call themselves the hero.” He laughed. “It’s all very predictable and thus, antediluvian. You see?” He finished with a beaming smile as if awaiting applause.

_Inhale._

“Who’s your father?” Hermione asked in place of acknowledging his spiel. Enos started, his showman smile dimming slightly.

“Gideon Ollivander. Why?”

“Did he have any siblings?”

“Why?”

“Answer the question,” Kilmore demanded in a bored tone.

“But why does sh-”

“Just answer the fucking question, did he have any siblings?”

“Yes, one. My uncle.” He spat his expression twisting once again.

“You don’t like your uncle?” Tal asked.

Enos bared his teeth, “no, he’s a stuck up prick. Now there’s another of your kind for you!”

_Exhale._

Sensing blood in the water, Jay pushed, “why don’t you like him?”

“Because he doesn’t like me.”

“Why doesn’t he like you?” Tal said, joining in.

“Does it matter?”

“Answer the question,” Kilmore repeated.

“Because he bought into the ‘my tribe is better than yours’ shit. I told you, he’s an Ante-”

“But you’re an Ollivander, surely you’re all the same?” Tal pushed.

Enos scoffed. “In some respects, we do all seek knowledge.”

“Well, then how are you different?” Jay asked.

“We just are,” Enos stated with an exaggerated shrug.

“Yeah, but how?” Tal said.

“We just are,” Enos sank lower into his seat.

“But how?” Jay repeated.

“Fuck off,” Enos growled, his face whitening with fury.

_Inha-_

“He’s a squib.”

The room was so silent following Hermione’s statement, that she was sure that no-one breathed – herself included.

Then several things happened in quick secession, almost appearing simultaneous. Tal let out an elongated noise of realisation while Enos slammed his fists in the table, launching himself up.

“HOW DARE YOU!”

Hermione slid back her chair, the metal legs scraping harshly against the hard floor as Enos lunged over the table, spitting rage-filled obscenities. Kilmore stood from his seat and began to reach across the table, while Jay took several long strides across the room.

“Incarcerous.”

Thin ropes slithered from Tal’s wand and wrapped themselves tightly around Enos’ writhing body, hauling him back into his chair and binding him to its folded form. He quietened immediately, a look of dawning horror on his face as he took in the magical bonds that bound him.

_Exhale._

Jay released a quick breath, turning to Tal with wide eyes of wonder.

“You weren’t kidding after all,” he mused, resuming his post in the corner, while Tal flashed him a winning smile and a wink before he rounded on Hermione.

“How d’you figure that one?”

“I didn’t, it was a guess. Garrick’s a good man, and he’s a half-blood himself, so it’s not a blood prejudice thing.”

Enos scoffed from his “I told you tha-”

“But there isn’t a magical person I know who doesn’t look down on squibs in some way, and the Ollivanders are a proud sort. Besides,” she gestured with a nod of her head toward Enos who had become deathly pale. “Arrogance and villain speech aside, if he cares as little as he says he does about everyone, then why stick around? He is right, if he were magical, he could easily be out of here.”

Enos’ thin lips stretched over his bared teeth, his pin-prick pupils never veering from her face.

“But I believe everything else,” she concluded turning her attention to him. “You really _do_ know who’s behind the attack don’t you.”

_Inhale._

The whites of his eyes were stark as he glared at her, the tendons on his neck were in sharp relief as he strained against the ropes.

“Of course I know you bitch! But I’ll never tell! I’ll bite my tongue out before I do.” He lowered his head, twisting it jauntily like a snake preparing to strike. “But I won’t need to. You’ll find out soon enough. It’s all in motion now, an oncoming tsunami, you won’t be able to stop it as it tears the last breath from your lungs.”

_Exhale._

He tipped his head back as a raw sound tore from his throat, corrupting the hollow laughter that wrenched free from his lips.

_Inhale._

Hermione heard a knock before the door opened and Barnett’s head appeared through the gap. She cast an alarmed look at Enos, her eyes lingering on the ropes. Hermione stood to follow the others out, the sound of Enos’ tortured laughter still ringing in her ears.

_Exhale._

The group set off, trailing quietly behind Barnett who ranted at Kilmore about how the use of ropes to retrain a prisoner during an interview was strictly against the rules he promised to follow. Hermione watched with mild amusement as the silver man brushed it off, nodding and shrugging.

_Inhale._

_‘It’s all in motion’_ , Enos had said. _All._ Meaning Waterloo was part of something bigger.

_Exhale._

She felt the nagging need to input her theory. _It was all connected._

_Inhale._

_Fucking do something._ But she had to assume that they weren’t.

_Exhale._

_It’s all connected._ She had to prove they were.

_Inhale._

_Do something._

_Exhale._

Hermione blinked against the sun that hit her eyes. She whipped her head around. They had gathered out the front of the building. Tal and Jay were laughing over something off to the side.

“Alright?”

Her teeth clacked as she snapped her jaw shut, repressing the flinch of surprise at Kilmore’s voice behind her.

“Yeah, just thinking it through,” Hermione replied, turning to him. “What do you think he meant when he said it’s all in motion?”

Kilmore blew out a breath, smoothing a hand across his neat hair. “I don’t know, but I know I don’t like it.” His brow furrowed in thought a moment before he turned back to her. “I think it’s best though, to amend the intel scans for his vernacular, see if we can start finding more of these Enlightened folk. What you guys gonna do?”

“Speak with the Ollivanders, find out what we can about Enos. In the meantime, I’ll procure some veritaserum and we’ll take another run at him.”

Kilmore started to reply when a stream of police cars and vans screamed past, lights flashing and siren blaring, drowning any hope of conversation. Kilmore scrunched his nose, hitching a lip in a disgruntled expression.

“Fucking riots, I bet.”

“Riots?” Hermione repeated.

“Yeah, spread across the whole country past couple of days. Well, ever since Waterloo.”

Once more, the claws of unease tightened their hold on her, as she watched the flashing blue lights disappear into the gloom of the on-coming black cloud that had crept closer from when she had seen it that morning.

**_11:45 pm, 11 th of September, 1999 - _ ** _**12 Grimmauld Place, Claremont Square, Islington, London, UK.** _

****

Blink.

_I should really clean this canopy._

Blink.

_I wonder if it’s ever been cleaned._

Blink.

_…Fuck._

Hermione sighed and stretched her stiff limbs from where she lay in her bed. She had been awake for hours. At some point before dawn, she had given up her attempts at sleep but had not yet risen from the safety of her nest. She had hoped, as she had watched the light of the morning peak in through her windows, that if she simply refused to put her feet to the floor, she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the day. By the time the rain had begun to drum its constant beat at around eight, she had decided that she wouldn’t have to deal with the swirling mess of thoughts that tumbled around her head, all of which were vying for her immediate attention, if she simply remained in bed.

After Scotland Yard, she and Tal had gone their separate ways: him back to the DMLE, her to the offices of Substance Control on level four and had to toil away the hours signing a plethora of wavers to procure the veritaserum. Kilmore had said that Enos would be tried in a muggle court, so ‘technically’ Hermione hadn’t lied when she had signed that the information given while under the influence would not be used as evidence in any Ministry hearing, because ‘technically’ that would be true. The fact of the matter was that Hermione didn’t care if she got a full confessional from Enos about his involvement, she just wanted to loosen his lips. She had believed him when he had said that she would not be able to stop the apparent oncoming tsunami; but she could evacuate as many victims from its path as possible, to minimise the fallout. After she had finished there, she had apprehensively headed to the DoM to search for Raine. No-one had seen him, not even Tin. Hermione had returned to an empty home – Harry nowhere to be seen - assuming that Raine would owl her that night with an update as to Malfoy’s situation. No message had come and so Hermione had managed to send an owl to Mr Ollivander requesting an audience before she had collapsed in her bed and proceeded to stare at the canopy for hours on end.

Avoidance.

The whole thing was a mess.

Besides, it was a Sunday. The world could wait a few hours for her to catch up on rest before it ended.

_**Tap, tap**. _

Hermione looked over to the window to see a barn owl staring at her imploringly through the pane, as the fierce wind ruffled its already drenched feathers. Spurred by sympathy, she finally lowered her feet to the cold floor and quickly crossed the room to let it in. The barn owl hooted weakly as it hopped over the window sill, its body trembling from the cold. Hermione scrabbled for her wand in the clothes she had abandoned the night before and cast a quick drying spell. Though the sudden blast of heat made the owl’s feathers stand on end, giving it the appearance of a fluffy ball, it hooted happily and held out its leg for her to release the scroll.

Leaving the owl to help itself to the treats on her desk, she sat back down on her bed and unravelled the message.

_Little Bird,_

_I believe you are right – at least in part. The Malfoy boy’s hearing yesterday was a pantomime of politics. He is as well as can be, back in his family home in Wiltshire, though I am certain he shall not remain long. He has been acquitted of all charges_ _Section 4a, subsection Alpha-Beta of the inheritance amendment of 1301 of the Bylaws of Infinitae Famalia. The other option was that he was to be executed by the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures._

_Yes, I know. It’s is a random law isn’t it. Very convenient for the coughball politicians to have such a nuanced law to-hand, even though I’m sure between them, they wouldn’t be able to recite the names of all their mistress’ and offspring._

_Forgive me, I am tired and frustrated. After I left the Malfoy boy, I went to the Ministry archives and it took myself and three others, five hours to find the small paperback amendment with that particular law in. It is not stated anywhere else. Which leads me to believe they must have prepared this defence for him._

_But this begs the question, how the fuck did they know to plan this defence for him? But inheritances are natural aren’t they? They surely couldn’t have planned this. Had I not seen with my own eyes the veracity of the Malfoy boy’s nature, I would be questioning whether this was a true inheritance._

_ This is not a coincidence. How did they know? _

__

_I feel that the sad fact of the matter is, is that the only person with ‘good’ intentions in that room was that hag, Wilma? I think that’s her name – and she tried to kill him._

_How was Scotland Yard?_

_R._

Hermione re-read the note. _‘It’s all in motion’,_ Enos had said. _‘This is not a coincidence.’_ But surely what could ‘they’ hope to gain from Waterloo and Malfoy’s release. ‘ _Inheritances are natural, aren’t they?’,_ she didn’t know if an inheritance could be induced non-naturally (read: she hoped somebody had informed the archivist’s family that they were missing, presumed dead). Theoretically, it could work, but as was the way with all magic. But to what purpose? If the two were connected, what could the Enlightened possibly gain from blowing up Waterloo and Malfoy's release? She flipped the parchment back and forth. A scrawl of ink on the back caught her eye:

_P.S. I stand by what I said. I only regret the tone in which I said it. Forgive me, Little Bird._

A band of tension released from around her chest as she breathed a sigh of relief.

She crossed her room to retrieve supplies to write a response. The spherically shaped barn owl perched on the window sill, eyeing the stormy weather with trepidation.

“You can wait it out in the attic with the other owls if you like?” The barn owl hooted happily and clipped his beaked as she ran a gentle finger over its feathers in a vain attempt to smooth them. Hermione took this to mean yes and was about to open her bedroom door to let him out when something out the window caught her eye.

A large shape, that was blurred by the rain that came down in thick waves. The dark cloud that Hermione had noticed the day before had finally made landfall and was releasing its burden with vengeance down on the world below, while the wind slapped the trees in the square with fervour. The large shape was getting closer, dipping low over the rooftops, its wings beating rapidly to keep it straight in the hellacious wind. It was only when it was metres from the window, did Hermione realise it was a large eagle owl. She leapt to the window, threw it open and jumped out of the way just as the huge bird swooped in. By the time she turned from closing it again, the dripping eagle owl was perched on her desk glaring down at the rotund barn owl who hooted softly up to it, as if trying to calm the murderous looking bird. Hermione saw the eagle owl had a large brown package clutched in its talons. She cast another drying spell which had a similar effect on this bird’s feathers also. However, the sudden puffed appearance did nothing to quell its austere aura. She cautiously approached, leaning her face away from the flinty glare that the bird had now turned to her, while the barn owl bobbed its globular form in a strange sort of dance.

“You can wait out the storm as well if you’d like?” she said hesitantly as she opened the door to her bedroom. The barn owl hopped into flight and disappeared quickly up the stairs. The eagle owl, however, glared her a minute more, before it reluctantly spread its wings and disappeared to the rafters.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Hermione gathered the package and the writing supplies and sat back on her bed. She saw that there was a letter attached to the package.

_Hermione,_

_Hope this finds you well. As you know, the library was damaged during the battle and we lost a great many books. The new head girl, Poppy Pertinger (I think you would like her very much) has taken it upon herself to catalogue and organise the existing contents of the library. I hope you don’t mind, but I shared your request with her. She has gathered a number of books that fit the description you have given. If none of these books are of any use to you, nor do you wish to keep them, then please send them back and we shall take another look._

_Please also find attached a selection of pastries and desserts from the kitchens. I only wished to send some pumpkin pasties but I fear the elves got a bit excited when they learned who it was for._

_Hope you are all well,_

_Minerva._

Hermione tore into the package, releasing the smell of baked goods into the room. She reached for a particularly lumpy bag labelled: _Pumpkin Pasties_. She unfastened the tie eagerly and would have blushed at the noise that came from her throat as the pastry hit her tongue, had she not been completely and unashamedly thankful to be chewing the sweet goodness. After a few more bites, she drew the stack of tomes that were bundles neatly in red ribbon closer to her. They were all various measures of ‘small’, some degree of ‘brown’ and all bound in leather. She untied the ribbon and carefully picked up the first, flipping the front page:

_Ester’s guide to Countering that Curse – Volume I_

She placed that one aside and picked up the next:

_Magical Mischief, Maladies and Malaise_

She placed that one in the pile and moved to the next:

_The Journal of George Ripley_

She placed it on the pile and was about to move to the next when her hand paused. Hermione hesitated before picking up the Ripley’s Journal again. She flicked through the pages and her eyes caught on the familiar vividly coloured illustrations she remembered seeing all those years before. Flicking to the front of the book, Hermione picked up another pasty and settled in to read.

Hermione learnt of Ripley’s travels across mainland Europe and his quest for exploration. She admired the detailed sketches of his discoveries: from thorny flowers to Jobberknolls and Flapdoodles. It wasn’t until she reached the entries of August, did her pulse begin to spike.

_17 th August 1489._

_Upon Paracelsus’ guidance, I headed deeper into the Alpine Mountains. The winds are bitterly cold at night, fearsomely howling the further in and higher up I travel. It is as if they are warding me back._

_19 th August 1489. _

_I have found them. The Sylphs that Paracelsus described. They are extraordinary. A colony of men who live high up on the mountain tops. At night, they take flight. They disappear into the shadows, their wings as black as the midnight sky. They swoop and holler as if they were young boys in the streets of Cambridge. I shall try to introduce myself tomorrow._

_21 st August 1489. _

_I find myself gazing in wonder at these young men. Their features are delicate and perfect as if carved from stone. Their hair as white as the snow of the mountains, their eyes as silver as the moon. And yet when they fly, their wings are barbed, as dangerous as the claws from the tips of their fingers. But I believe Paracelsus was wrong. These men are not a new breed of creature. I have encountered a brother colony farther north in the Fjords of Scandinavia some ten years ago. Vilenjak they were called. They guarded the northern winds for their mates, while their female counterparts, the Veela, hunted the shores. I remember the white wings of the Veela against the black wings of the Vilenjak, it was a sight to behold._

She examined the detailed diagram of a wing. Leathery membrane separated by bony arms. A light dusting of feathers up the struts that led to the large horned knuckles. He had drawn them from different angles, examining their stretch and motion.

_23 rd August 1489_

_Alewiss is the leader of these men. He spoke with me for some time. I was correct in my suspicions. He explained the men could not do as the women did. The women were hunters, fierce and devastating. He said that it was always the place of the men to guard the air for them so that their siren song would travel far and wide._

_He thought it their duty, to shepherd the wind._

Hermione ran a trembling finger delicately over the thin page. Ripley had sketched the one he had labelled Alewiss. She hovered over the sharp cheekbones and pointed jaw, stroking the etchings with disbelief, but her gaze kept getting drawn back to the silver eyes that watched her from the page. The sketch of this man, Alewiss, had captured the timeless smirk, the knowing glint of a secret untold. This was a face she knew.

_Malfoy._

Hermione launched herself from her bed, summoning the first clean outfit she could think of – her Unspeakable uniform.

_Inheritances are natural, aren’t they?_

She wrapped the light material of the protective gear around her, the supple black blend of leather and goblin weave fit her like a glove.

_Shepherd the wind._

She grabbed her wand and the journal.

_It’s not a coincidence._

She scrawled a quick note to Raine and sprinted up the stairs. Felwyn, Harry’s huge Great Grey owl nipped her finger in greeting.

“I need you to take this to Raine Willows. As fast as you can,” she urged, attaching the journal and the note to the owl’s leg. She casted ‘impervious’ over Felwyn and the package.

“Go!”

She stayed long enough to watch as Felwyn’s herculean wingspan stretch and beat against the wind, disappearing into the waves rain, before she herself disappeared with a **crack!**

**_15:01 pm, 11 th of September 1999 – Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, UK. _ **

****

Hermione’s hair coiled and tangled like wildfire in the ferocious wind while the cold, heavy droplets rain slapped her skin like blades of ice. She looked up at the wrought iron gates that featured in her nightmares regularly. Malfoy Manor stood before her, bleak and imposing under the darkened angry sky.

_It’s not a coincidence._

She didn’t know what _it_ was, but all she knew was that the gnawing deep inside of her, told her that _it_ wanted Malfoy free, away from the relative safety that Azkaban had provided him.

_It could be nothing,_ she told herself and she pushed open the gates.

This was not her first time returning to the Manor. The Ministry had passed a 'seize and censure' of all cursed items amongst Death Eater estates and so in a coordinated effort, the DoM and DMLE had entered the grounds, stripped them of their blood-wardings, and seized a veritable treasure trove of cursed objects.

Hermione froze, one foot on the path of the drive, realisation seeping down her spine like the frozen rainwater that drenched her through. _Fuck…_ They had left the estates open. Unguarded. Without security.

_It wasn’t a coincidence._

She set off at a sprint, the gravel of the drive crunching heavily under each quick footfall. Her chest heaved as she vaulted the steps, casting a wandless ‘alohamora’.

The door clicked open and she threw herself through it, not hesitating for even a second.

_That shouldn’t have worked, how could we leave them that exposed._

Hermione stood in the dark entryway, her breath loud against the silent shadows, save for the wind that howled through the body of the house. She lifted her wand above her head, silently casting ‘lumos’.

_Shepherd of the wind._

She set off, her movement silent with practised ease. She kept low, her knees bent in readiness.

The minutes ticked by, not a soul was in sight as she searched the entirety of the downstairs with efficiency. Her hand hesitated only a moment at the door of the drawing-room, her heart skipping a beat.

_Inhale._

_It wasn’t a coincidence._

_Malfoy._

Hermione pushed open the door. Her witchlight doused the room in a cold glow, elongating the shadows.

_Exhale._

Noting the absence of life in the room, she closed the doors securely and turned sharply on her heel, resuming her search.

The storm continued to rage outside; the wind screamed through the hollow carcass of the manor while the rain battered the windows as if trying to break in. With every empty room, she felt the creeping claws of unease tighten their embrace once more. Returning to the entryway, Hermione didn’t give herself a chance to think as she took the stairs, two at a time. At the top, she faltered, unsure of which corridor to take: left or right.

_Left._

Hermione set off at a light jog, peering into rooms as she went. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the corridor that her witchlight fell upon a door open ajar at the end of the hall.

_It wasn’t a coincidence._

_Inhale._

She slowed before the door.

_Exhale._

She gently pushed it open.

_Inhale._

Her light hit a seating area that was arranged in front of a grand four-poster bed. Her eyes caught on the Slytherin scarf wrapped around the post. _His room._

_Exhale._

She stepped cautiously into the room, her eyes darting back and forth looking for signs of disturbance.

_Inhale._

She stepped around a long sofa.

_Exhale._

Her foot froze in the air before her next step.

_Inhale._

Hermione’s witchlight reflected off of the shiny surface of a dark liquid that was streaked across the far post of the bed.

_Exhale._

She stepped cautiously to the left to see around the side of the bed.

_Inha-_

The white light of her wand shone like a beacon on the obsidian expanse of a leathery wing. Long clawed hands clutched the small lifeless body of a house-elf to his hunched form.

Hermione pointed her wand unerringly at the silver eyes that quietly watched her.

_Exhale._

“Malfoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've made it to the end of the marathon, take a seat, catch your breath!
> 
> Let me know your thoughts and theories!!!!


	11. Raison d’être

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the way that I have toiled over this chapter, umm'ing and ahh'ing, deleting and re-writing. My poor friend, thebestoftimes2, has had to put up with my insanity. As per usual, I AM NERVOUS! I have come to accept that this is going to be my natural state when posting. But still... AH! 
> 
> Secondly, I would like to say HELLO! To all the new readers! A huge thank you to girl_in_love who recommended this fic to others. I am continuously humbled and awed by all of your feedback and positivity. So thank you all once again for allowing me to burden you with the ramblings of my mind. 
> 
> Thirdly, do you remember how in the last chapter I was like - totally not going to do a 16k chapter again guys... I'm sorry. But you will hopefully understand why I have 100% unashamedly gone back on my word here. This is a long one. 
> 
> TRIGGERS - Descriptions of starvation, death, horror, gore, blood, violence. As per, I think that's it, but if I have missed any, please let me know! Muchos love!
> 
> All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Without further ado, grab your beverage and snack of choice and maybe a tissue, and I hope that you enjoy.

**_'Seeing you come to me should be catharsis_ **

**_but instead it takes on the colour of murder._ **

****

**_It is because you the mortal one between us,_ **

**_More beautiful in your emotions, easier to kill,_ **

****

**_All that energy inside you as quickly perishable_ **

**_As the entire lifespan of a butterfly._ **

****

**_Maybe this was why I wanted you,_ **

**_I had grown cold with responsibility for the sun._ **

****

**_Destruction was not what I intended for you_ **

**_But this is what happens to all who follow in my wake._ **

****

**_Ask the sunflower who she used to be, She will tell you_ **

**_She was the mortal who fell in love with me._ **

****

**_This was the difference between ichor and iron._ **

**_The universe made you closer to itself than us._ **

****

**_The water will take better care of you than me,_ **

**_Let me melt your wings, you belong to the sea._ **

****

**_Now a stillness neither of us knew before._ **

**_Now a softness no one can answer for._ **

****

_\- Nikita Gill – ‘Apollo to Icarus’_

**Chapter 11 – Raison d’être**

* * *

* * *

****

**_10:13 am, 11 th of September, 1999 – Penthouse, Hyde Park Gardens, London UK._ **

****

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

It had been a long time since he had been allowed peace. Even before Azkaban, peace had been a mystical concept known only to others around him.

“I know you can hear me!”

_Second-year maybe_ , Draco pondered. That year hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park. No, quite the contrary, the whole thing had been fucking terrifying. Every kid’s worst nightmare to know that there was a literal monster roaming the halls unseen, leaving only a trail of bodies in its wake. The nightmare was worse when you knew what the monster was. No, second-year hadn’t been easy, but when he peaked at the memories, they held a certain whimsical sheen. The lights had been bright, the fire warm, the smile’s wide and the laughter loud and free. He had known peace that year. Third-year had been the beginning of the end, what with the Dementors looming around every corner, and when he had arrived home that summer, his father had expressed in no uncertain terms that it was time to start accepting family responsibility. Thus heading Draco on the path to the mark on his arm.

“Oh for Salazar’s sake, fine! Have it your way!”

No. Second year was the last time he had had peace. The last year of his childhood.

Draco blinked slowly, his eyes trapped in an unseeing stare, mesmerised by the scene beyond his window, while he got lost amongst his thoughts. He had been awake for hours, unable to sleep properly in the huge downy bed that Pans had put him in. At some point before dawn, he had wrapped one of the many soft blankets over his shoulders and had curled up on the floor, his back to the foot of the bed, to watch the morning light appear through the window that made up the entirety of his wall. He’d watched as glass-fronted buildings were set ablaze in silvery, weathered light, standing like crystals on the horizon. He’d watched the entire sky come alive while the world awoke beneath. He’d watched the clouds rolls in and had savoured every drop of rain that had fallen onto the waking city below.

He had watched the sunrise he never thought he’d see again.

**Knock knock.**

He had watched as the storm had come to life; the winds whipping the trees below as if they were releasing pent up energy from having been confined within their cumulous cages for so long. The rain too; it was as if it fell upon the world with an air of desperation, keen to get back to the soil and the flowing rivers.

Draco absently noted the air around him shift, welcoming a new presence into his space.

Peace was a novel concept.

_Is peace freedom?_

Even the wind that was free and wild was not at peace while it chaotically thrashed the trees below.

_Is peace the opposite of stress or is it happiness? Because some people are happiest when they’re stressed, ergo reducing stress does not bring them peace…_

He frowned as he tracked a particularly wild lash from the wind stir the clouds above.

Somebody settled on the floor to the right of him.

_Is peace knowledge?_

_With knowledge comes the aforethought of negativity, of all the evil of the world._ Draco’s fingers twitched as if to reach for something like the muscles were reliving the memory that his mind had occluded. _Knowledge is knowing, and knowing comes through experience. And if knowledge encompasses the spectrum of experiences, ranging from good to evil, then knowledge is sometimes knowing something that nobody should know._ He huffed slightly as he concluded that he would be an entirely different person, _a better person,_ had he not experienced the things he had, if he didn’t know the things he did, if he didn’t possess _that_ knowledge.

_But then is that ignorance?_

_To be at peace, does one have to be ignorant?_

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news here mate, but I think Pans is going to come up here and force-feed you if you don’t come downstairs,” Theo said softly as if he were trying not to disturb the quiet of the room.

“I believe that,” Draco replied, his voice rasping from disuse.

Pansy had done what Pansy does best - though she’d kill them if she ever heard them say it out loud. The minute he had arrived through the fireplace, she had swaddled him so tightly in soft blankets that he hadn’t been able to fight her off as she had poured regenerative potion after potion down his throat. She had only ceased her browbeating care when he had wretched, his malnourished stomach revolting against the alien feeling of fullness. So instead she had tutted and preened him whilst he had sipped the first cup of tea he’d had in over a year. Draco had been in a daze, his mind slowly coming around to the fact that he was free, and that this was the first nonabrasive human touch from someone other than his mother or a Healer, that he had had in over a year. He had basked in the feel of the gentle fingers running through his hair, lost in the tenderness of the moment. It was only when he had stood later on weary legs, did he notice the tufts of loose blonde hair that had scattered the floor.

“It was beyond saving,” was all Pansy had said, before she had turned away, nose in the air. She had then curtly ordered him to follow her as she had led him to his room. The room that had always been his according to her. He’d looked around numbly, overwhelmed by the space. Pansy had pilfered one of Theo’s t-shirts for him and it had hung loosely on his skeletal frame. She had then forced him into the bed, tucking him in so tightly to the downy nest of luxury that he’d barely been able to move. At some point, he’d fallen asleep to the sound of her quiet commentary of the magazine she had resumed reading.

_What is peace?_

A flash in the distance caught his eye as the white light silently fractured across the heavy canopy of clouds.

“Come on mate,” Theo said as he made to stand. Draco forcibly peeled his gaze from the horizon to look up at a face that he knew so well, and yet hadn’t seen since the day of his trial; Theo hadn’t been at the Penthouse by the time Draco had arrived and Pans had explained that he and Blaise had been working. Slowly, Draco grasped the hand that Theo offered him, and with some effort and a lot of support, stood. There was a moment of hesitance from both men as they looked at one another. Draco noticed he was now taller than Theo; while this was a surprising fact considering that Theo had always taken pleasure in being the taller one of the two, it was not an unpleasant discovery. He noted the dark circles under Theo’s eyes and the tense poise of his brow. He noticed the hesitant look of hope in his blue eyes. A look that Draco had seen over the years become repressed and silenced by the harsh hand of his father so that the only glimmer that remained could be found in the corner of his eye if one knew where to look.

With an unspoken signal, they stepped into one another, firmly grasping each other in a solid embrace. Draco tucked his head into Theo’s shoulder and breathed deeply. Coffee, tobacco and notes of bergamot.

“I missed you,” Theo’s small, fragile words brushed his ear; the sudden hard lump of emotion in Draco’s throat prohibited his reply. It was all he could do to pull his friend in tighter and curl his fingers into Theo’s soft jumper as he clung on.

After a moment, Theo slowly began to extricate himself and looked up at Draco with bright wet eyes.

“Give me your word, you’ll never do that again,” he said seriously, his tone brokering no argument. Confused, Draco lifted a brow.

Theo swallowed and wet his lips. “Give me your word, you’ll never leave me like that again.”

Only the patter of rain against the window could be heard as silence stretched through the room. Draco looked between Theo’s shining blue eyes. The lump in his throat pulsed with clogged emotion. He swallowed heavily to try and shift it.

“Y-” He gruffed, choking on the words. He looked down at the floor and swallowed again. “I give you my word, that I will not willingly leave you like that again,” Draco said in a coarse voice, meeting Theo’s eyes that now radiated the hope that he usually kept locked away.

After a moment, Theo nodded. “That’ll have to do.” He clasped Draco on the shoulder as he stepped around him. “Come on, Pans is probably apoplectic by now.”

Draco’s lips gave a muted twist of amusement as he began to carefully follow Theo from the room. His stiff joints creaked and his malnourished muscles ached from, what Draco assumed to be, the combination of the lingering magic of the potions that Pans had forced on him, the inheritance and the sudden influx of movement after so long of wasting away. He leant heavily on the hand that slid along the wall as he shuffled down the hall to alleviate some of the weight on his weary bones. His toes flexed against the soft plush carpet as he paused to catch his breath at the top of the stairs, leaning on the landing bannister. Theo hovered ahead of him, banked in a similar repose a couple of steps down, looking placidly out of the huge panoramic window that covered the ceiling and wall while he waited. Draco followed his gaze and had a sudden swooping sensation of vertigo. Admiring the expansive view of the world from within a constrained porthole in his room had been fine; granted the porthole was an entire wall, but the additional opaque surrounding walls provided the sense of security he had needed. He hadn’t had a decent opportunity to notice the makeup of the apartment the day before, given his shell-shocked state upon arrival. The view in front of him, however, was open. Exposed. Everywhere his eyes landed, the outside world was there, waiting. To go from having the entirety of the world be reduced to a twelve-by-fifteen barred window slat, to complete, unobscured openness on all sides left him with a distinct feeling of being simultaneously giant and huge beyond his body, filling the world around him for as far as the eye could see, whilst also feeling like a small boy, lost in the wilderness: weak, vulnerable and alone.

Draco’s chest juddered as he drew in a ragged breath, his knuckles whitening as his hands gripped the bannister tighter. His eyes eagerly roamed the vast vista, greedily soaking in every detail that was free of the raging storm. His eyes tracked the rivets of water that streamed down the gentle slope of the glass roof, only to then be distracted by the expansive view of the nature within Hyde Park. The image of his daydream from a couple day’s prior hit him so suddenly that the need to be outside was so visceral, it was pain. He turned to Theo to get his attention, only to meet the gaze of blue eyes that already watched him with curiosity.

“Can we -” Draco faltered in uncertainty, unsure of how to ask.

“I mean, do you think we cou-” His breath rushed from his lungs as he failed to find the words again.

Theo tilted his head, a slight crease appearing between his brows as he tried to puzzle out Draco’s request. He watched as Theo’s eyes slid from him to out the window and back; a questioning look crossed his feature upon return.

“You want to go out there?”

Draco nodded, feeling ridiculous for making the request. Before he could say anything to dismiss the notion, Theo’s arm appeared before him.

“Do you want to get some shoes and a cloak first?” Theo said conversationally. Draco looked up in surprise. Again, Theo’s face was the passive calm but the light in his eyes had grown and there was a small twitch of his lips that threatened to crack into a smile.

“No,” Draco said, taking the proffered arm. Theo held his eyes, searching for assurance, before nodding to himself. He tensed suddenly and whipped back to Draco.

“Are you safe to apparate?” he asked urgently.

“I’ll be fine,” Draco said with quiet confidence.

And he believed it, too. Though he felt like he’d had lost a fight with a pack of Werewolves and that the frame of his body was weaker than it had ever been, Draco sensed the power that coursed through his veins with every move he made. It was the same power that had unfurled itself during that night, the same power that had burned his blood, that had felt alien and ancient but all together like the comfort and familiarity that he found with his old friend. It didn’t feel separate from him anymore. It felt like…him - but more.

“Ready?” Theo asked. Draco nodded, closing his grip with his other hand, just be secure. He felt Theo’s hand curl around his, clutching it tightly as he pulled his arm to his body, securing Draco in his hold.

At last, Theo’s grin broke across his face as he glanced at Draco over his shoulder. “Pans is gonna be so pissed,” was all he said before Draco felt the tug in his navel that pulled him away with a **crack!**

Immediately his bare toes curled into the sodden mud, securing his unsteady balance.

“Alright?” He heard Theo’s raised voice shout over the roaring wind. Draco tapped the arm he still held in reassurance before he stepped away. The soft wet ground gave slightly with every press of his weight, covering his feet in the oozing earth. The wind tugged his hair in every direction as if it were excitedly vying for his attention. Within seconds he was soaked through as the cold rain hammered down.

Draco kept walking.

With every step, his footing became more sure.

With every step, the ice of his bones thawed and the burning in his veins was smothered.

With every step, the creak of his joints eased and his stiff muscles loosened.

He rolled his neck, closing his eyes to the world and the wild elements that whipped around him. He felt the aggression in its actions, the unrestrained ferociousness as the wind lashed at his macerated body. It curled around his loose limbs, stroked lovingly at his cheeks only to twist back around flirtatiously to come at him from another direction.

A laugh bubbled up from Draco’s chest and escaped his lips. He snatched a hand to his mouth in shock and blinked. He pulled his hand away to stare at it with wide eyes as if it were a dangerous animal.

He had forgotten what it was like to laugh.

Another titter freed itself from his throat.

And then another.

They rolled through him faster and faster, shaking his shoulders and racking his ribs until finally he tilted his head back and let them free to the wind.

As if it had been waiting for an unspoken signal, the heavy clouds above sparked with light, instantly followed by the rolling rumble of thunderous sound that vibrated the mud between Draco’s toes.

And still, he laughed, whooping with unbound feeling.

_Is this peace?_

The wind whipped faster, brushing, tugging, pulling him in every direction.

Again, the park flashed with white as a dramatic fork of lightening exploded across the blackened sky above. And again the ground beneath his feet trembled as the booming sound of broken light echoed through the air.

Tears escaped the corners of his eyes and the uncontrollable laughter in his throat turned raw as he crowed.

The months in a cage.

The years of silenced emotion.

A decade of fear.

_Freedom - not peace._

The continuous downpour of heavy droplets turned into sheets of water as if the sky were liberating all of its burdens at once. The deluge joined the tears that now streaked freely down Draco’s cheeks, carrying them away from his waterlogged body.

Moments, minutes, hours: Draco didn’t know how long he stood there, freeing his laughter to the elements. Gradually, it began to subside, leaving only Draco’s chest to occasionally shudder with a latent chuckle and a hiccupped breath. He felt a warm, heavyweight settle on his shoulder and he turned to see Theo’s drenched face, holding a look of equal concern and bemusement through the hair that was plastered to his forehead.

“Are you gonna come out with an evil villain speech now?” he asked with a teasing smirk, while he gently squeezed Draco’s shoulder in affection. Draco covered Theo’s hand with his own, squeezing it in turn as he looked back to the angry sky above.

“Maybe after breakfast,” he replied with a grin. Theo barked a laugh, as he squinted his smiling eyes to look up at the angry sky. He blew out a sharp breath that displaced a heavy drop that clung to the tip of his straight nose as he turned back to Draco.

“Better?” He asked, a smile still dancing on his lips.

“Much,” Draco said, scrunching his toes again, relishing in the feel of the gritty earth. “You ready?”

Theo nodded and stepped back, holding out his arm. With surer motion than previous, Draco gripped it tight and with a **crack** they landed in a decked area, surrounded by plants on all sides.

Draco blinked around at the sea of green that towered above his head. The sharpness of the rainfall was rounded and dulled as the droplets landed on the thick, luscious green leaves around him, creating a gentle tympanic rhythm that filled the decked space. He spied a glass wall at the end of the path and began to walk toward it unaided. It wasn’t until he was nearly at the door, did he realise that Theo wasn’t with him. He scraped back the fringe that had flattened itself to his forehead and looked back to where Theo still stood, rooted to the spot he had landed.

“Everything alright?” Draco asked.

Theo’s brow rose sharply as an incredulous look shaped his features. “There’s obviously a lot we have to talk about,” he began slowly, as if unsure of his words. He swiped a hand up his jaw and across the back of his neck as he started to walk toward Draco at a sedate pace.

“And I was totally willing to leave questioning the whole 'jaunt-in-the-storm' moment because you know, I think I get it,” he said, scraping his wavy hair back. “Obviously, I wasn’t going to bring anything up unless you volunteered the information, but Draco…”

Draco saw Theo's Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed convulsively around his sentence; a curious mix of unease and wonder coloured his blue eyes as he met Draco’s gaze once more.

“Not twenty minutes ago you were rag and bone, barely able to stand,” he held out a hand, gesturing up and down Draco’s person, his brows high on his forehead. “Now look at you!”

Draco frowned and glanced down at his body, his rebuttal ready on his lips to dismiss Theo’s assertion, but the words quickly were washed away with his exhale of disbelief.

The thin t-shirt that had hung loosely from his frame was clinging to his wet body, moulding to every ridge and line perfectly like a cast. Instead of seeing the valleys of his ribcage against the hollow of his navel that he had seen reflected in the mirror the night before, he only saw the toned smooth lines of muscle and sinew that flexed and tensed with the shock that ran through him. He held out his arms, turning them over and over, observing from different angles how the bone that had been becoming alarming prominent, was now wrapped in rounded flesh. He ran his hands down himself, checking for the tell-tale hardness of bone that he had been getting uncomfortably familiar with. Speechless, he turned back to Theo, his mouth opened and closed with every sentence he tried to offer as an explanation, all dying a death before their utterance as they fell short.

“So you’re a creature now?” Theo said hesitantly.

Draco made a noise of agreement whilst flexing out his hands, watching as the strong tendons shifted under the new healthy parlour of his skin.

“Veela,” he offered absently, “full-blooded.” He twisted and stretched, relishing in the pleasurable burn in his limbs instead of the creaking struggle he’d had not twenty minutes before. It wasn’t until Draco had finished, that he realised that Theo hadn’t replied. He looked over to see him staring with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“What?”

“It explains so much,” said Theo, the corner of his mouth twitching again as he tried not to smile. “Veela are notoriously high maintenance and prissy.”

“Oh fuck off,” Draco scoffed, waving him off as he turned to make his way toward the French doors.

“No no, I’m serious!” Theo pressed, his teasing smirk unrestrained now, as he scampered to catch up. “Fastidious about every fucking hair. Oh, do you remember that time you made Millie bald just because she messed up your 'oh so perfect slick-back do'?!”

Draco snorted as he pulled open the door, “I didn’t do it just for that reason!”

“You fucking did!” Theo squawked.

“No, she’d been a cow for ages, she wouldn’t leave me alone and she had been bloody messing with me constantly,” Draco shrugged, “so I ended it.”

“Ah, the Malfoy overreaction, we know it well,” said a sage voice.

Draco looked around to pinpoint where the new arrival in their conversation was. Sat at the breakfast table, behind a tall newspaper, was Blaise. He creased the corner of the paper with his fingers to peer over it with a knowing smirk that quickly melted away as he raised a perfectly shaped quizzical brow at Draco.

“You are looking distinctly better than when I last saw you?”

“Oh good, you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence! I knew those potions would work!” Pansy’s clipped voice added as she appeared from the kitchen area carrying a platter of pastries. “I have your next dose Dra-”

She drew up short as she caught sight of him and tilted her head like a bird.

“Well…I didn’t think they’d work that well,” she mused quietly to herself before speaking louder to Draco and Theo, “why on earth are you two soaked through?” She flicked her manicured hand to point to Theo’s shoes. “Off. You’ll ruin the carpet.”

Draco felt a wave of warmth spread over him as all the moisture disappeared from his clothes; his newly shortened fringe fluffed and fell into his eyes while Theo muttered darkly to the side of him as he removed his boots. He puffed a breath to move the hair from his eyes, nodding thanks to Blaise who placed his wand down gently after enchanting the cafeteire to pour its steaming liquid into the cups around the table. Draco took the seat opposite him, Pansy settled to his right. Theo stumbled, swore loudly and threw a shoe before seating himself to his left. Draco watched, reverently sipping the coffee, as his three friends slipped into an obvious familiarity, passing around breakfast pastries and the milk jug, quietly conversing.

“Really Theodore, out in this weather!” Pansy chastised.

Theo held a pose of mock-horror. “I know! How could I? The absolute debauchery!”

“Pass the croissants before she hexes you,” Blaise drawled.

Handing the porcelain platter over, Theo whispered conspiratorially, “she would never! Not at the breakfast table, that’s a sacrilege that rivals standing in the rain.”

“Honestly, do you ever take anything seriously?” Pansy sniffed, placing a platter bearing an assortment of pastries between herself and Draco for him to choose.

“I take many things seriously,” Theo said as he popped a jam covered croissant piece into his mouth. “The assembly of an outfit, a tailor's cut,” he said around the food thoughtfully, “the notes of a decanted wine,” he swallowed and reached for his coffee mug. “The noises of pleasure my bedpartner makes,” he said into the lip of the vessel that he had brought to his mouth before taking an eager sip.

Draco chose a strudel and set about cutting it in half.

Blaise snorted. “Because you’re an expert on that,” he said sarcastically.

“Oh re-”

“Don’t start you two,” Pansy interrupted, tearing at the bear claw on her plate.

Apple. It was an apple strudel.

“He started it,” Theo muttered indignantly while Blaise chuckled.

“And I’ll finish it,” Pansy quipped.

“I just find it very hard to believe that you would take something seriously if you have no experience in hearing it,” Blaise said haughtily with a teasing smirk.

Draco popped a bite of the strudel into his mouth. The tart sweetness of the filling electrified his disused taste-buds, the force of which they came screaming back to life caused an ache to roll along his jaw as he savoured the zingy warm flavour of caramelised apples. His eyes fluttered shut as if to preserve sensory information. His stomach awoke with vengeance, crying out for the food his tongue was currently preoccupied with. The sound that tore from his throat was an unconscious conclusion to the simultaneous awakening of his systems…

“Well, I guess you’ve heard it now.”

“Can I get one of those strudels?”

Draco blinked his eyes open and unashamedly reached for another piece.

“It’s quite nice to see you lot haven’t changed,” he commented around his next mouthful.

Pansy tutted a put-upon sigh, “honestly, it’s been like dealing with children.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Blaise suddenly, “have you heard from the Mice?”

Draco frowned in confusion as he chewed.

“No, but I’ve asked Allie to meet me later. I’ve got to pick up some winter coats for them now that the weather is turning,” said Pansy.

Theo nudged Draco with his elbow, “The Mice are the merry band of spies that we keep,” he supplied. Draco nodded in understanding while remained thoroughly confused, as he continued to demolish the strudel

“They’re not spies,” Pansy admonished, after taking a delicate nibble from her pastry. “They’re orphans from the war: too young yet to go to Hogwarts and refuse to go into the Muggle system. We’re doing the best we can for them.”

Theo raised a brow. “My apologies, I amend my previous statement. They are poor lost little souls who have an uncanny ability to overhear useful things quite a lot. What’s even more interesting about this phenomenon, is that if you ask them to overhear a specifi-”

“Oh shut up and eat your food Nott,” Pansy snapped.

Draco chewed thoughtfully, watching the two bicker before he turned to Blaise. “Who are you spying on?”

“Everyone,” Blaise said simply. “We’ll read you in on the business when you’ve settled in. Speaking of which, are we going to talk about this?” He tapped the folded newspaper to his left. Today’s headline visible from its placement:

_Old Rules Still Favour the Elite: Ministry Sets Monster Free._

Draco washed down his mouthful with his coffee and lent back, eyeing his friends in turn.

“Where should I begin?”

Pansy flicked her wand toward the cafeteire, enchanting it to refill their mugs again. “Begin at the open darling,” she said with unusual gentleness.

And so Draco began to tell his story. He described the gradual decline of his health, not lingering on the effects that he could now directly attribute to the misery of Azkaban. He repeated the pleas that he had made to the guards, to his mother – though he amended that knowing of her condition now somewhat explained her inaction. He then went through, what he now knew to be the inheritance event, glossing over the intimate details. He spoke of what Healer Morin and his mother had said to him regarding his lineage.

He then faltered, the words catching in his throat as the image of molten honey and the scent of nutmeg washed through him unbidden. The hunger that had quelled to a simmering burn, but hadn’t disappeared entirely, yowled with a renewed sharp aching pang through his chest.

As it had been gradually worsening in the days leading up to the inheritance, Draco had concluded that the hunger that he had felt within him, was at first, a literal hunger. But he had known then, that that was a false belief in the vain of denial. In the quiet of the night, he had gone as far as to admit to himself that the hunger was not a craving for sustenance and so he had attributed it to a yearning for freedom. But even then, he had known deep down as he had watched the sunrise that morning, that that wasn’t the truth either. And as he sat at the table, the sticky sweetness of apple coating his lips, his breath stuttered in his chest on words he couldn’t say because a part of him didn’t want to share her with them - he knew what that hunger was as it rallied within him.

He knew what he yearned for. What he craved.

Draco knew without a shred of a doubt what the burn of desire was longing for.

But he refused to say the words.

He would not acknowledge it.

_There is no point._

He swallowed heavily and curled his hand into a fist. Only to loosen them just as quickly.

A low whistle sounded to his left and Draco looked over to see Theo eyeing the black claws that lay in stark contrast to the pearlescent white table cloth.

“Fancy,” Theo commented with an impressed look. Draco rolled his shoulders in an attempt to abate the now familiar itch that had appeared down the blades while ignoring the pointed looks that flew between his friends.

He continued, forcibly occluding the feelings away behind a flimsy, hurried wall. He told them of the trial summoning, of the immediacy of the hearing. He repeated the split arguments that had been shouted across the chamber: freedom or execution.

“That’s fucking lucky the old dogs on the Wizengamot, just had that defence ready like that,” Theo said.

Pansy hummed in agreement, “almost convenient. You might have some of the old families trying to get you to take the Malfoy family seat now that they’ve gotten you out.”

He told them of Willows and the Department of Mysteries’ interest in him.

“Do you know what they want from you?” Blaise asked with a furrowed brow.

Draco shook his head, scraping his clawed fingers through his hair, letting it fall softly back into his eyes. “I haven’t a clue, but there’s something about this Willows fellow…”

“You think he’s one of them?” Blaise said, straightening suddenly as his expression darkened. Draco noted how Pansy and Theo’s postures subtly changed too, tensing, readying themselves.

“No, he’s a different breed of mania to our parents, I think.”

Though they all relaxed in their seats slightly, their eyes watched Draco with strained focus.

“Well, what sort do you think he is? Do you think he’s an Order member?” Pansy asked as her painted nails drummed a rhythm against the table.

Draco hesitated, “I don’t think so, he and Shacklebolt weren’t exactly friendly with one another.” He remembered the way that Willows had roamed the floor, looking as if he were the one that commanded the room; the Minister had shown subtle deference to Willows’ presence. At the time, Draco had thought that mere polities, but in hindsight… “No, I think they work together and know of each other's agenda, though I’d hedge my bet that they’re not necessarily on the same side.”

“Come off it, there aren’t any other sides to take,” said Blaise exasperatedly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Death Eaters or the Order. Light and Dark. Us versus them, they’ve made that clear,” he said, tapping the folded newspaper beside him.

Theo twirled a butter knife lazily between his fingers, his eyes unseeing as he spoke. “Just because we impose constructs upon the world, doesn’t mean that is how life actually works.”

“Don’t start,” Pansy sighed.

“No, but it’s how society is run Theo,” Blaise stated shortly.

“Think of it as a clock face,” Theo continued, ignoring the terse interruptions, still twirling the silver knife between his fingers. “We humans, have created a system to measure the passing of time in numerical increments, in a means that is mathematically logical in accordance with the world around us.” Theo leant back in his seat, crossing one long leg over the other. “If you remove clocks from consciousness, does time still exist?”

Pansy frowned at the table while Blaise fixed Theo with a disapproving look. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Theo shot back. “Your concept of time is beholden to the ticking of a clock. What happens if you delete the clock? Nothing.” He dropped the knife with aplomb and reached into his trouser pocket to pull out a box of cigarettes. “Time still goes on, the sun still rises and sets, the seasons still change, things are born and things die. Time doesn’t stop just because you remove the human framework from its lexicon.” Theo held a cigarette delicately between his teeth as he snapped a silver lighter aflame. His cheeks hollowed before the blue smoke began to curl from his nose. “Our lives have been framed by Death Eaters and the Order. But that’s just one framework, so of course, there are more sides out there because there are more people in society than those who took part in the war. There have been other wars with different causes. Besides, Light and Dark are so binary. What about all the shades of grey in between?” He summoned a crystal ashtray from one of the side tables.

Nobody spoke for a moment, silently processing the thought.

“The real issue,” Theo said suddenly, “is trying to find out what his side is. He’s not one of them, nor on the side of the Order. He’s Department of Mysteries and powerful enough to waltz into a full hearing and shut down an entire notion just like _that,_ ” he said with a click of his fingers. “So what game is he playing? What’s the tune he’s dancing too?”

Draco pursed his lips and watched as his claws receded into the blunt edges of his fingers.

“The impression I get from him is that if he’s an ally, I’m sound. If he’s an enemy, I’m fucked. At the minute, he thinks it’s in his best interest to keep me safe - hence yesterday,” Draco said with a nod to Blaise who tilted his head in acknowledgement. “But he knows things; he’s got an air about him like he’s twenty steps ahead of you, y’know?”

Blaise made a noise of agreement, “I saw that too, particularly when we were leaving. I mean, I hoped you’d change your mind and come here, but he seemed so sure that you would, and to top it off, he also knew that you’d be in a bit of state!”

Draco nodded, “that occurred to me too as I was about to floo.”

“If he’s not Order or Death Eater, do you reckon he’s interested because you’re a Malfoy?” Pansy mused, taking a sip from her cup.

“I wouldn’t say so personally,” Blaise said, “that’s only because of the way he reacted to Narcissa. You didn’t see Draco, but he seemed genuinely quite concerned, but not in a way that denoted that it fucked with any of his plans.”

Draco hummed in thought. “And yet, when I asked why he was being so nice to me, he said that he thought that leaving me in the state that I was, would reflect on him poorly in the future. Though to who, he didn’t say.”

“So we’ll add him and the Department of Mysteries to the list of people on our watch list then,” Theo concluded.

“Wonderful,” Pansy quipped, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “What happened after the trial?” she said, turning back to Draco.

The rest of the story was short as Blaise had already told the other two of his version of Draco’s arrival back at the Manor.

“Where were you two when I got here? Pans said you were working?” Draco asked, refilling his mug.

“Oh isn’t that a fun little story,” said Blaise bitterly, casting a dark look at Theo who flicked his middle finger at him as he turned to Draco.

“We had a meeting with some clients, had to pass on something they’d asked us to fetch.”

Draco’s brow rose as his gaze flicked between the two men. He threw a questioning glance to Pansy who shrugged with a bewildered look on her face.

“So what happened then? Why’s it a fun story?” Draco asked.

Theo shifted in his seat, unease pouring from his posture while Blaise glowered at him.

“Did everything go alright? Are you guys in trouble?” Draco pushed, stress creeping into his voice the longer the other two remained silent.

“No, there’s no trouble, it went fine. Just…” Blaise swiped a hand down his face which suddenly looked weary with a weight that he carried. “Theo being Theo and not thinking further than his dick.”

“Hang on!” Theo exclaimed, straightening his posture in defence. “I explained to you why, so you know it has nothing to do with my dick, fuck you very much!”

“Oh I’m sorry, how could I forget that you’ve suddenly developed a mora-”

“Don’t fucking start! Everything we-”

“BOYS!”

Silence reigned in the wake of Pansy’s shout. Theo stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray while Blaise scowled into his mug.

“Now, I know that I have to go shopping today and run a few leads. Draco what time are you - Oh yes, I almost forgot!” Pansy’s aggressively calm demeanour brightened suddenly. “An owl arrived for you early this morning from St Mungo’s,” she exclaimed as she flicked her wand with a muttered, ‘Accio’. “Forgive me, but you were so exhausted I didn’t want to wake you quite that early. I assumed that if it were urgent, then Healer Afton would have tried to contact you with immediacy rather than owlpost.”

A thick cream envelope landed daintily beside Draco’s plate, bearing the crossed wand and bone emblem of St Mungo’s in the wax seal. He picked up his knife, ran it under the edge to break the wax and pried it open. He reached for his coffee as he unfolded the letter:

_Mr Malfoy,_

_I hope this finds you well. As per my promise to you, Lady Malfoy has been admitted under complete anonymity. She is placed in the private wards housed in the Septimus Wing. She has been awake since before dawn and is responsive and cognisant. Forgive my forwardness, but it gives me pleasure to say that she is aware enough of her surroundings to be rather displeased at the current situation she finds herself in. As I said, usual visiting hours are between two and six pm, however, as Lady Malfoy is in the private wards of your family’s wing, and considering her emotional state, I feel it may be best for you to come whenever is best suited to you – regardless of the visiting hours. If you send an owl before your arrival to let me know, I shall escort you so that no questions are asked._

_Kind Regards,_

_Healer Afton._

“She’s awake; Afton says I can go there whenever. I’ll um,” he folded the parchment back into the envelope and made to stand. He frowned, unsure of his next action. “I’ll need some clothes.”

“Help yourself,” Theo replied.

“Do you want company?” Blaise said, his irascibility forgotten.

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Thank you,” Draco said with a small smile. “After I’m done there, I’ll head back to the Manor and pick up some stuff to bring here.”

“Will you need a hand there?” It was Pansy this time who offered as Theo came to stand beside him, ready to lead him up to his room.

“No thank you,” the smile of Draco’s lips widened with affection. “Stop worrying, I’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Don’t say that,” Theo grouched, as he turned to lead the way towards the stairs. Draco finished off the last dregs of his coffee before following Theo up to his room.

**_13:16pm, 11 th of September 1999 – Septimus Wing, Third Floor, St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London, UK. _ **

****

Draco adjusted the cuff of his shirt sleeves for the hundredth time as he followed Healer Afton down the corridor. He had arrived to see the tired Healer waiting for him on the hearth of the private entry in St Mungo’s foyer. She had signed him in quickly, keeping him away from the main waiting area and had proceeded to inform of him of his mother’s wellbeing as she led him through the hospital.

Draco however, struggled to pay attention. The black suit and shirt that Theo had thrust upon him were well-made from luxurious materials, only needing a slight tweak here and there to fit Draco’s measurements. But it was the restrictive nature of the stiff collar and cuffs of his shirt that had Draco re-arranging them every five minutes. He hadn’t worn a suit for over a year. He hadn’t put any effort into his appearance for longer, considering vanity had been the least of his concerns during the war. And with his newly revitalised body, where unexplored power coiled with every stretch and tense of muscle; where the sensitive nerves sang with every brush of the soft material; where every sound was deafening and every scent, he had come to realise as he walked through the halls of the hospital, was pungent to his newfound acute sense of smell; he found that he felt like a stranger in this new dangerous skin.

The tundra was quiet and undisturbed in his mind’s eye.

He ran a finger under his cuff once again.

“To be honest with you Mr Malfoy,” Healer Afton continued, “my main concern is for you.”

“Beg your pardon?” Draco blinked, trying to recall what she had just been talking about to explain her concern. The gentle witch cast a soft smile over her shoulder.

“I’m underplaying it when I say Lady Malfoy isn’t pleased by her current situation dear.” Her lyrical voice was coloured in amusement as she turned the corner through an archway inscribed with:

**_Septimus Ward – Qui se Auxilio Auxilium_ ** _._

_Figures,_ Draco scoffed, his eyes trailing the etched stone. _Septimus the bewitching Machiavellian._ He had spent many an hour during his childhood conversing with the portraits in the manor, learning of his family history as all good pureblood children were expected to do. Septimus was situated in the blue reading room of the auxiliary library. It was where all the political manifestoes collected by his ancestors throughout the centuries had been stored. In the beginning, before Draco had even started Hogwarts, Septimus had made him read the manifestoes aloud for hours, refusing to answer any question or hold any kind of conversation. By Draco’s first summer home from Hogwarts, he’d read them all and so Septimus moved on to chess. He had said that he would only answer a question if Draco beat him.

It took a further two years until Draco won his first game.

By that point, Draco had spoken to all the other portraits in the house and was fairly knowledgeable of the different lineages in his tree.

Nobody had mentioned the Veela, he chided, distractedly.

Septimus had been the only one left who had yet to engage in conversation with him properly. And so the day that Draco had finally won, he had sat there, blinking in disbelief at the check-mate on the board. He had wanted to cry from sheer relief. He had looked up to see Septimus’ black eyes watching him in their soul-seeing manner, waiting expectantly.

 _“Well?”_ he had croaked, his lofty, soft English pallet hanging heavy in the enunciation. It had been that moment that Draco had realised that in all those years, he never had expected to win. He had wracked his brain for a question; he had known he had to make it a good one, it could have been another two years before he got another chance. He had known so little of Septimus: he had been an advisor for the Minister of Magic of his time; he had been a very successful politician in his own right and an unforgiving patriarch of the Malfoy family – or so Draco had been led to believe by Nicholas and Armand Malfoy, whose favourite past times included passing judgement on each head of the house that came to be. Draco had done the only move he could have. He had reset the board, bid Septimus ‘adieu’, and left without another word, only to return the next day to start another game afresh without any passing comment. He played his first move and had sat waiting for Septimus to make his, except his ancestor had just sat there watching him. Finally, a grin had broken across his painted face and his cold eyes had sparkled.

 _“And what is the lesson I have taught you?”_ he had said.

 _“Never surrender power once it is yours,”_ Draco had replied. Septimus had laughed richly, played his move and settled into retelling his life story, how he had commanded the Ministry from the shadows while usurping the Minister with the court of public affection through such acts as the ward that Draco was walking through. He had gifted it to St Mungo’s, fully stocked, fully funded and it had won him many favours that he had graciously declined, only to utilise the power of their given good grace later when it had suited him. But he couldn’t help himself from showing his true colours now and again: _Qui se Auxilio Auxilium – Helping those who help themselves._

 _“Nothing is ever given for free, boy,”_ he had said the summer of his fourth year. _“You must always take what you are owed, but never when it is not given freely. If you sit around and expect the world to bend a knee to you, it never will. You are the master of your path. No-one will command the world to love you, for you. You must help yourself. You must lure it in with charm and promise, make it think that it’s bending the knee of its own volition. Be benevolent in your selfishness. That way, it will not fight when you take control.”_

Septimus had always said, in the quiet of the night when Draco would sneak away for a moment of sanity, that the Dark Lord would fail because he was taking what had not been given freely.

“Here we are,” Afton sang, gesturing to a heavy oak door. She turned to Draco, her eyes lingering on his form appraisingly. “Forgive me, but I’m glad to see that you’re looking remarkably better than yesterday. I did worry, leaving you.”

Draco tipped his head graciously, his old etiquette training kicking in, and flashed her what he hoped to be a charming smile.

“Thank you, your concern is touching, truly. I’m glad my mother has had a caring person by her side.”

He watched as the soft witch’s cheeks coloured a delicate pink as she returned his smile.

“Right well, of course, it’s been wonderful,” she rushed. “I mean, it hasn’t been wonderful obviously. It’s been awful. Not your mother. She’s been wonderful. She um…” The pink darkened on the Healer’s cheeks.

“I appreciate your sentiment,” Draco smoothly input, hoping to belay some of her awkwardness.

“You’re welcome,” Afton breathed, ducking her head to clear her throat. A second later she looked back again, her jaw set against the flush that Draco could see rise up her neck. “Shall we?” she said in a clearer tone.

“After you,” he said with a gentle smile.

_Still got it._ He watched as the Healer set about un-warding the door, noting her flustered movements. A quiet part of him preened and he fought to keep the grin from his face.

“Lady Malfoy I - ”

“Elizabeth I will not put up with this any longer!” Came an enraged voice from inside. Draco winced as it echoed down the corridor.

“I know I-”

“This has gone far enough!”

“Lad-”

“I will not tolerate this treatment! I am not a second class citizen! The Malfoy name still means something!”

“Narcissa!” The Healer barked, the command sounded foreboding in the strong Irish accent. “If you’d allow me to talk, I have your son here.”

The answering silence was deafening, and Draco shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, feeling insurmountably grateful for the small witch in front of acting as a barrier.

“Send him in.”

Afton turned to look at him expectantly and Draco suddenly wished to be anywhere else in the world. She stepped back and gestured for him to go in. He took a sharp breath and rounded his shoulders before stepping through the doorway.

Immediately, his senses were overwhelmed by the scent of patchouli that filled the cosy room that was lit with a roaring fire and low reading lamps; it could have been another room in the Manor for all he knew. In the centre of the room was a four-poster, its white curtains pulled back. In the centre of the bed, his mother, who watched him with glittering eyes and a stern set to her mouth.

“Thank you, Healer Afton,” Draco said quietly, “I’ll take it from here.”

“Of course, tap the knocker on the door if you need anything or when you’re ready to leave,” she replied, before closing the door with a quiet **click.**

“Mother,” Draco said after a moment, unsure of what to do; as much as he wanted to greet her or worry over her, he could feel her fury from where he stood. Instead, he pocketed his hands and waited.

“Come here,” she said, holding out a pale hand. Draco crossed the room in a few long strides and gently held her thin hand in the grip of his strong fingers. He noted she was warmer than she had been the night previous, as her fingers curled to strengthen their grip on him. He lowered himself to sit on the bed, one knee up to angle his seat towards her, their entwined hands between them.

“Mother I-”

Narcissa held up her free hand, halting his words. “Let me begin,” she said quietly as her radiating fury melted away. Her pale eyes searched his face, the shadows of her gaunt, un-glamoured features were stark in the low light of the room.

“While I will argue that this,” she gestured to the room around her, “is not necessary at all, I can concede that perhaps, it is what is needed at this moment in time. My dear boy,” though her voice cracked and her eyes shone brightly, Narcissa’s features were a veneer of calm and poise, “I am so deeply sorry... I am so sorry for not being there for you, for letting you be alone, for not hearing you.”

Draco’s eyes pricked, “Moth-”

“Let me finished darling,” she interrupted with her soft iron will. “I have let you down. I promised after the war, after what that monster did to you, that I would never leave you to face the demons alone again, that you would never be left to bear the weight of this family’s follies on your shoulders and I failed you. I have no excuse, but I want you to know that I will not let you down again.”

The breath from Draco’s lungs escaped in a rushed exhale as he hung his head; the surge of emotion that shattered against the quivering walls within his mind choked his throat. A singular tear broke free and trailed down his cheek. He pursed his lips, twisting his grimace to abate the tremble that threatened to start. He brought his mother’s hand to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles.

“You, have nothing to apologise for.” He heard Narcissa draw breath and felt her tense. Sensing her rebuttal, he continued, “but you are forgiven nonetheless for anything and everything.”

He raised his eyes to meet hers and watched as her own silent tears trailed down her tired cheeks.

“Malfoy’s never show weakness,” Draco murmured as he thumbed them away. She chuckled a watery laugh.

“You are the product of all that has come before you,” her breath hitched as she gently squeezed his hand. “To see you look so well now, standing tall and strong after what you have been through. No, my darling boy,” she sniffed delicately, “you could never be weak, no matter what you do. I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are now free to live your life the way you were meant to.”

Narcissa sniffed again and reached over to her left for a handkerchief. She wiped the remnants of her emotions from her face and turned back to Draco with a rekindled fire in her eyes.

“Now, let us discuss how you saw fit to lock me away not five minutes into your freedom,” she said, her brow rising severely while her pale eyes still glittered with unshed tears in the firelight.

Draco swiped a thumb over the back of her hand and sighed. “You know very well that that wasn’t the case -”

“It bloody well is the case -”

“No it isn’t, you said yourself that you can concede how _this_ is needed right now.”

“Do not throw my own words back at me!”

“Mother, be reas-”

“I shan’t! You have imprisoned me here!”

Draco raised his brow and affected his most disapproving look.

It only took a moment for Narcissa’s features to show contrition. “You know what I meant.”

“I do,” Draco agreed with a sombre nod. “However, with all due respect Mother, I do not care.” Fierce offence sharpened his mother’s features but Draco continued regardless. “As you promised that I would not shoulder this family alone, that does not mean you get to either. Let me help you now. Starting with getting you back to full health, before we discuss your living situation.”

The argument that Narcissa had been building paused as she became distracted at the second point. “Living situation?”

“Yes, the manor is miserable. It’s a nightmarish tomb and would drive anyone to the brink. If you wish to return there, then we are going to discuss some serious renovation. But I implore you to consider your own freedom during your time here. France, a cottage, a different manor. A bloody castle for all I care. Wherever you want, you shall have, as long as you are happy,” he said, stroking her knuckles with his thumb reassuringly.

Narcissa’s pale eyes searched his face. “When did you become a man?”

Draco’s lips twitched in amusement, “I’m taking that as a concession, just so you are aware.”

“That’s reasonable,” Narcissa replied with a small smile. “So I am to stay here?”

“Till you are better.”

Narcissa huffed and pursed her lips. Draco snickered, “I’m glad you are more like yourself than the last I saw you.”

“And I, you, darling,” she squeezed his hand. “You are much better, I must say. You no longer look like -” Her voice ceased as she brought her handkerchief to her mouth, her face twisting in upset. “Oh, you were wasting away! My child I -”

“Hush,” Draco crooned. He shifted closer up the bed and pulled her to his chest, wrapping her delicate form into his embrace. “I’m okay now,” he said softly into her hair.

“Yes but -”

“But nothing, having an inheritance has to count for something right?”

Narcissa pulled back, her watery eyes searching his.

“How is that?” she asked quietly. Draco sighed and looked into the fire as a way to avoid meeting her gaze.

“It’s fine.”

“Draco…”

“Well I am fine,” Draco nonchalantly repeated, turning back to her briefly. “Look at me.”

“Yes I can see there has been a change,” Narcissa replied softly as if she were trying not to spook a wild animal.

Draco nibbled the inside of his lip as he looked down and fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve again.

“I’m fine,” he said once more. “I don’t…” He blew out a sharp breath. “It’s all happened so fast.”

The walls in his mind trembled.

“One minute I’m fine facing another ten months in prison, the next I’m a Veela, then I’m in court, then I’m going to be executed, then I’m not, then I’m healed, and now I’m here.” He drew a ragged breath, his fingers still toying with his cuff.

All that could be heard in the room was the crackle from the fire.

His chest panged a sombre keel.

“I’m…” He swallowed thickly. “I’m frightened,” his voice was barely a whisper in his admittance. 

“Oh darling,” Narcissa breathed, her small hands folded over his, stilling his movements. “You have nothing to be frightened of. This is a natural change. It is in your blood, it is _you_. It’ll be different but-”

“I’m not frightened of the physical differences,” Draco interjected. “They’re alarming and they’ll take some time to get used to, but I’m not frightened of them.”

Narcissa paused, the quiet of the moment was leaden with the emotion of the conversation. “What are you frightened of?”

Draco bit his lip and rolled his shoulders. The itch was back.

“I don’t…”

He took a shuddering breath.

_There is no point._

His chest keened again, the hollow hunger cracking like a chasm deep within him.

“I don’t understand… what’s happening _in_ me.”

It was Narcissa who gently swiped her thumb over his knuckles now.

“Try your best to explain and I’ll see if I can provide some context. Though he didn’t know a lot, your father spoke on some things.”

Draco looked up sharply. “He was-”

“No,” she interrupted. “He wasn’t like you, but your grandfather Abraxas inherited some Veela traits.”

Mollified and surprisingly disappointed, Draco quickly looked off into the fire again. Narcissa remained quiet, waiting for him to speak.

_There is no point._

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something Draco.”

_There is no point._

“No, it’s nothing. I’ll be fine. I’m just getting used to the change is all.” Draco swallowed sharply against his tight throat.

Narcissa pursed her lips, frowning slightly. “Why won’t you say what’s bothering you?”

“Because there is no point!” Draco snapped aggressively. He immediately reeled back, shocked at his outburst. Narcissa however, did not flinch and instead merely swiped her thumb again over his knuckles in a soothing gesture.

“Why is there no point?” she asked, her voice tender with compassion.

“Because…”

Draco’s walls shuddered violently and finally, the wall he had hastily built that morning crumbled, disappearing into nothingness. Suddenly he was awash with molten honey and nutmeg once again.

“I don’t understand why her…I don’t understand what she is…”

Narcissa tilted her head as she looked at him quizzically. “Who?”

Draco brushed her question aside, “it doesn’t matter.” Narcissa opened her mouth to argue. “No Mother, really. It doesn’t matter. It will never be anything. I just don’t understand why I can’t stop this…” he tapped his chest as he searched for the word. “Pain,” he settled on. “When I think of her, she is pain. I can’t breathe.” He took a deep shuddering breath as if to prove his point.

“Has this been since your inheritance?” Narcissa asked in a hushed tone.

Draco swiped a hand through his hair, only absently noting the claws that had appeared. “In a way. She’s always been there but I could deal with it before. I accepted a long time ago though, that it would never be anything, so whatever I felt just stopped. But since the inheritance, it’s pain.” He swiped his hand down his face. “And I know that I can’t _do_ anything. I don’t even _know_ what I’d want _to_ do if I could. Part of me wants to, so badly I can feel it in my bones. But I know I can’t,” he drew another juddered breath. “I know I can’t _do_ anything. I don’t know what she is, but I know she is something. She’s something to me. She always has been.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I make her sad,” Draco replied unthinkingly, his voice breaking with strangled emotion as he spoke the truth he had only admitted to himself in the quiet of the night. “And before, that didn’t bother me so much because I wasn’t anything to her,” he swallowed thickly. “I’m still not,” a bitter laugh slipped past his lips. “The only thing I have ever been to her is pain. So I can see how this is karma.” His laugh grew darker as his chest panged once again. “It’s so twisted to feel this,” he tapped his chest again, “this ache - when I don’t know who she is now. I never did.” He looked down at his hands and watched the firelight dance in the reflection of his obsidian claws. “I never could know who she was,” he added in a hollow voice. “I am a product of all that has come before me after all.”

Narcissa reached for him again but Draco pulled back his hands and stood from the bed.

“Draco -”

“I’m fine,” he repeated adamantly, as he walked over to the fireplace and leant against the mantle. He watched the flames dance and flicker, uncaring and free. “I am fine because I understand enough about whatever she is to me, to know that I need _her_ to be fine.” He felt the prick of his claws as the hand that leant against the mantle curled into a fist. “And she will be fine because I know that the thing that causes her pain,” he drew another ragged breath, “is me.” The golden flames blurred as his eyes filled and his throat tightened. “So, to keep her fine, I’ll stay away. I won’t _do_ whatever it is that some birdbrained instinct is telling me to do. I’ll ignore it all.” He thrust his jaw forward, fighting the quiver in his lip. “The only thing that frightens me is whatever she is. I don’t understand this change; I don’t understand why she has this _power_ over me.”

Draco breathed deep. His muscles were coiled tightly. His shoulders stretched and burned as his wings threatened to break forth. He loosened his fists and rolled his neck.

Tundra.

Snow.

_Silence - not peace._

“I don’t know if that’s the best course of action, my son,” Narcissa’s voice broke his reverie. He whirled around to face her.

“Why not?” He demanded. “It’s the only option I have!”

“Because I think you already know what she is to you.”

“Have you not been lis-”

“Your grandfather inherited three traits according to your father,” Narcissa said over him. “The claws, the strength and the mating bond.”

Draco’s breath stuttered in his chest.

“As you know, your grandmother died during childbirth and Abraxas never spoke of her again nor loved again. Lyra Rosier. He had her portrait removed following her death. Lucius supposed it was because it was too painful. Only once, did your father push to know anything about his mother and he said it was the one and only time he saw his father turn.” She shook her head solemnly. “Lucius found out from Armand the extent of their connection years later. It was also then that he learned the extent to which his father had changed in losing his mate. He grew colder in his grief. Frozen from his lack of love.” She looked up to him. “You must not fight this my darling. Who is she?”

Draco released his held breath and pocketed his still clawed hands. “A stranger.”

“Strangers can be won over.”

“This one can’t. I’m free from Azkaban but this is my atonement for the wrongs I have done.” Draco sighed. Narcissa made to reply before he interrupted her. “Enough. Let it go. I’m fine.” He laughed a bitter laugh that left an acrid taste on his tongue.

Draco hung his head and breathed, his chest aching with each inhale.

_Mate…_

He swallowed and blinked his blurred vision clear.

_Grang-_

He exhaled shakily.

_Hermi-_

He shifted his shoulders and rolled his necked.

_There is no point entertaining the fantasy._

He shucked his sleeves, straightening his cuffs.

_I’m fine._

He straightened his jacket and ran a hand through his hair.

_I may never know peace, but I will be fine._

Draco released the last of his breath and straightened his posture, turning his level gaze to meet Narcissa’s worried eyes that watched him pull himself back together from the bed.

“I need to head to the Manor to get some stuff. Would you like me to pick anything up for you?” He asked calmly, the voice even and cold.

“Draco…”

“Do you need anything Mother?”

Narcissa blinked owlishly before masking her features in an aristocratic veneer.

_Malfoys never show weakness._

“An assortment of outfits and my case of toiletries. The potions they have here are just awful,” she tutted scornfully.

Draco smirked, “of course. I’ll return later with that. In the meantime,” he crossed the room to lean down and place a kiss on her forehead, “rest.”

She squeezed his hand in parting as he turned to leave.

“Draco?” She called as he tapped the knocker on the door. He stepped back as it slowly creaked open, and turned to acknowledge her call.

“Never admit defeat before the war has begun.”

Draco noted the fierceness of her features and the fire in her eyes. His lips twitched a fond smile in return.

_If only you knew who she was, you wouldn’t be so quick to push._

“I’ll return shortly Mother.” He tipped his head and turned to leave, clicking the door shut behind him.

“Everything go alright?” Healer Afton said brightly as she rounded the corner, coming towards him.

“Perfect, I just need to pick up some personal items for her and I’ll be back,” Draco said with a smooth smile.

“No worries, I’ll take you to the floo now.”

As Draco followed Afton to the foyer, he allowed the lilting melody of her Irish accent to wash away the molten honey and nutmeg that slipped between his fingers.

**_14:14 pm,_ ** **_11_ ** **_ th _ ** **_of September 1999 – Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, UK._ **

****

Draco swept out onto the hearth of the darkened drawing-room. He brushed the ash from his sleeves and swept a hand through his hair, pulling the shortened silver locks from his eyes.

_Silence and freedom._

He pocketed his hands and strolled through the shadowed room towards the entryway. The crisp footsteps of his dress shoes echoed across the marble floor as he stepped out into the gloomy cavernous hall.

He paused.

The storm raged outside, the wind howled through the hollow carcass of the Manor while the rain beat rapidly against the windows. Usually, the sconces would flare to life, welcoming a Malfoy home with their merry flames.

None of the candelabras were lit. The house was in complete darkness.

An eerie sense of stillness crept over him as he stood in the centre of the entryway, his back to the huge front oak doors.

Draco’s eyes roamed the shadows that grew deeper, swirling with unseen threat further down the hall.

With all the fluster and panic since leaving Azkaban, it was with muted alarm that Draco noted that he was still wandless. He cursed himself for never learning wandless magic and vowed to begin as soon as he was out of the veritable nightmare he currently walked through. 

“Bipsy?” He called, his command echoing down the hall before disappearing into the shadows. He waited, but no response came.

“Joply?”

Nothing.

“Padry?”

Silence.

The hairs on Draco’s neck stood as he felt his shoulders burn and his pulse spike. His eyes roamed the entryway; his ears pricked, listening for the slightest disturbance over the howling of the wind. Draco suddenly realised why the silence had been so unsettling in the first place. His eyes caught on an empty portrait frame. He stepped back, angling his neck up, as he turned.

Every frame was empty.

None of his whispering ancestors watched over the hall.

_Where the fuck is everyone?_

He took a cautionary step forward.

Then another.

Slowly, he began to creep up the hall. He felt his fangs extend and sharpen as his eyes darted from darkened corner to corner, scanning for any signs of life.

_This is ridiculous. It’s all in your head._

Draco paused as he reached the base of the staircase. Every part of him wanted to sprint up the stairs, throw the items he needed into a bag and leave.

But the elves.

He took a steadying breath and veered to the right of the staircase and headed down the corridor that led to the kitchens and servant’s quarters. He paused every couple of steps, his ears straining for any noise out of the ordinary.

_Just check the elves. See why they didn’t answer._ He peered around the corner, searching the way ahead. At the end of the corridor, lay the hidden service stairwell that was a sure-fire shot into the kitchens. _Maybe they’ve had a revolt._ He toed down the hall, his clawed hand trailing the wall as he kept close to it. _A mini-revolution, maybe they were waiting for all the family to leave before they drank all the liquor… maybe they’re all drunk._

Draco paused at the false panel that obscured the stairwell and pressed an ear against it. Not a sound came from the other side. Tentatively he pushed, wincing at the creak of the unoiled hinges. He glanced back, checking the hall behind him was still clear. With his heart in his throat, he squeezed through the gap he’d made, not wanting to risk any more noise. He paused, his back to the wall; the stairwell before him was shrouded in pitch-black. Fear grinned widely and cooed softly in his ear as she ran her frozen fingers up his spine. He reached forward blindly in the dark and breathed a quick breath when his fingers curled around the bannister. Slowly he inched forward, feeling for the edge of each step before descending. He paused on every plateau, listening to the deafening silence over the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

Finally, there were no more steps to take. He leant forward, fingers extended blindly into the dark, hoping that the door that should be there, appeared. His claw caught against the frame and he stepped more assuredly to it in relief. He ran his hand down the frame, feeling for the door handle. With the cold brass secure in his palm, he paused once more, listening to the dark.

Nothing.

Slowly, Draco twisted the handle and was immediately met with a blast of frigid air that pushed the door open the rest of the way. He blinked against the sudden onslaught and swung his head out into the corridor, looking to the right. The servant’s door that led to grounds was wide open, allowing the wind to run amuck in the bottleneck of the narrow passageway. He frowned and stepped out, intending to head straight towards it, to close it. Except, the crunch that filled the hall was deafening as he stepped forward. Shocked, he jumped back and saw that the floor glittered in the gloomy light with scattered piles of broken shards of glass. He toed around it and looked to his left to where the darkened kitchen lay. The door was wide open.

Thunder cracked in the distance, rumbling ominously along the wind.

Draco made toward the servant’s entrance, skirting around the patches of broken glass. He paused by another open door to his right, half down the passageway, and quickly skirted in. He headed straight to the bureau that stood proudly as the only furniture in the room, besides the mop buckets and brooms. As a young boy, he and Theo used to steal the sweets, and later the matches for the cigarettes that they stole, that Joply used to hide in the bureau. He rifled through the drawers, pulling random envelopes and assortments out until his fingers curled around a box of matches. He scoured the shelves of the room, searching for Joply’s oil lantern that Draco knew he used to light his way when had to harvest the midnight herbs. He eventually spied it, tucked behind a pair of gloves on the top shelf. With nimble fingers, he hooked the loop with a long claw and brought it down, placing it on the flat of the bureau. The wind howled anew as he reached for the box of matches and struck it alight. It fizzed and popped merrily as he lowered the foundling flame to the wick of the oil, waiting for it to catch. Finally, he straightened, locking the glowing lantern door in place. Now armed with light, he felt more confident stepping back out into the corridor. He quickly traversed the final steps to the servant’s entrance and heaved it shut, dead-bolting it locked.

The abrupt disappearance of the howling wind left the silence to ring in Draco ears as he stood in the doorway, looking down the corridor toward the kitchen. The orange glow of the lantern threw long dancing shadows, that stretched the length of the hall before they too disappeared into the inky abyss. He drew a slow inhale as he carefully began to pick his way toward the kitchen, avoiding the dotted patches of crystalline shards that twinkled like stars in the lantern light as best as he could.

Draco stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and leant forward to peer into the darkness. Standing centre of the room were two islands with a walkway in-between: their surfaces were covered in an array of flour and baking equipment, a rolling pin teetered dangerously on the edge.

_It’s as if they’ve just disappeared…_

He stepped forward, his foot crunching more glass that crackled like splintered ice as he moved further into the room. He suspected the crystal glasses that covered the floor were the ones usually housed in the cupboards that lined the walls of the kitchen, ready for serving. He lifted his lantern and confirmed his suspicion when he saw the rows of cupboards doors strewn open. The orange light reflected off of the shiny surfaces of the polished granite tops as he rounded the far side of the first island.

It was only when he moved to push the rolling pin more securely on to the counter, that he saw from the corner of his eye, the reflection of the orange light in a dark pool of liquid that bloomed out like a sinister stain on the white tiled floor, in the space between the two islands. The breath caught in Draco’s chest as his heart pounded in his ears. He toed forward, his shoes scuffing the sharp shivers across the hard floor. He peered over the edge of the island and lifted the lantern high.

“No no no no-” Draco gasped as he swept around the island and knelt to the floor, he knees digging into the crystal slivers. Joply lay, lifeless, a stalk of a wineglass buried in his thin throat. Draco’s fingers fluttered over the elf’s tiny form, searching in vain for a pulse as he tried to avoid looking into the lifeless green eyes. Finding none, he glanced around him: from the broken glass that littered the floor to the stem that protruded from Joply’s neck to the unfinished baking on the surface.

Draco cast his mind to the patches of crystal in the corridor.

Joply must have used them as projectiles against whoever had accessed the servant’s entrance.

But how? How had they managed to get onto the grounds? 

He looked down at the elf’s frail form, his eyes lingering on the wound that bore evidence of insensate cruelty.

_Bipsy, Pad-_

A **thunk** sounded from further into the kitchen.

Draco flinched, ducking his head lower. He didn’t move, his breath silent, his heart pounding as his eyes searched the visible area. When he heard nothing more, he slowly straightened just enough to peer over the lip of the second island. The light of the lantern that he had left on the first counter behind him, only barely touched the space past the second island where Draco knew the pantry was.

He waited.

Stillness.

Fear peered over his shoulder into the darkness, her breath raising goosebumps across his neck.

With his heart in his ears, he straightened fully and grabbed the lantern. He then crossed the kitchen as quickly and as quietly as he could on the broken glass, and pulled a chef’s knife from the wooden block. The handle lay heavy in his palm and calmed the fluttering sense of vulnerability he felt without his wand.

Draco crept along the side of the second island, his lantern raised aloft, his eyes scanning for any movement. The shadows lengthened as the light caught on the open pantry door.

He blew out a steady breath and bounced the knife in his hand, securing his grip as he approached the door. He stayed back and held the lantern high in an attempt to get the light to reach further into the recesses of the narrow pantry as he came to stand central in front of the open space.

Nothing moved.

He cast a glance behind him once again, ensuring he was clear before he took a tentative step forward.

Then another.

It wasn’t until he crossed the threshold of the pantry, did he see a coppery smear on the floor that disappeared further into the darkness.

“Bipsy?” Draco whispered, taking another step.

A tiny whimper met his ears.

The relief that flooded through his body left him senseless as he rushed forward. Tucked away, between two burlap sacks and a barrel, Draco saw a tiny bloodied foot. He tucked the knife into the back of his trousers and knelt low, placing the lantern on the floor beside him.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

“M-Master?” Came a Scottish squeak.

It was Padry.

“I’m here, it’s okay. Can you move?” Draco breathed.

Draco heard Padry hiccup a whimper. “Padry cannot move sir. It hurts.”

“Okay, stay there.” Draco straightened and went to the full burlap sack. He lifted it with ease over his head, to spin and place it behind him in the narrow space. He moved the lantern closer into the now vacant spot. Padry lay in what was once, a white apron. An aggressive rose of deep red bloomed from his side. He looked to Draco, his huge brown eyes tearing as held his balled-up hat to his head.

“Let me take a look,” Draco said softly, as he covered the tiny hand with his own. He lifted the hat to see a deep gash above the elf’s eye.

“Jop-Joply’s-”

“I know,” Draco murmured lowly as he moved the chef’s apron aside to see the slowly oozing deep wound in Padry’s ribs that glinted sinisterly in the lantern light. He swore quietly under his breath and removed his suit jacket.

“Where’s Bipsy?” He asked, piercing the thick fabric with his claws and tearing it into thick swaths. 

“She – She went to stop them.”

“Who?” Draco pressed as he gently laced the fabric under Padry’s body and to wrap it tightly around him.

“Padry does – does not know,” he hiccupped, “wizards and witches. They wore black. Padry did not recognise them.”

Draco made a noise of frustration as he tightened the wrap around Padry’s abdomen in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.

“Do you know where Bipsy went to go stop them?” He said as he gently patted his fingers over the wrap, checking that they came away clean. Satisfied, he moved the lantern to shine brightly on the elf’s tiny feet. Draco noted the glass shards that were stuck in the soles of his feet.

“The people Sir, they – they said they were here for Master last night,” Padry squeaked weakly, “Bipsy told Padry to hide and then she went to the East Wing.”

“Why did she – you know what, nevermind,” Draco grumbled as he scraped a bloody hand through his hair. He then set about undoing his collar and hastily rolling up his cuffs. “Come on, I’m going to lift you, alright?”

Padry nodded and held out one thin arm while the other kept the hat pressed to his head. Draco carefully bent low and curled his arms around the elf’s fragile body. He felt Padry’s tiny hand curl into the collar of his shirt as Draco slowly lifted him, not wanting to make any sudden movements, lest it worsen the elf’s injuries.

When he was stood straight once more, Draco shifted Padry into the crook of one arm and lifted the lantern ahead of him as he backed out of the pantry. He crossed the kitchen, turning Padry away from Jopley’s still body.

“Don’t look,” he breathed as his hurried steps crunched over the broken glass. He felt a sob shake in Padry’s chest. “It’s going to be okay,” Draco hushed as toed open the door to the stairwell, peering into the gloom with the lantern held high. “It’s all going to be okay. We’re going to go upstairs. Then I’m going to put you in the hidey-hole in the drawing-room with the floo, you know the one?”

“But Sir -”

“Do you know the one?” Draco smoothly interrupted, as he skipped up the stairs. His shoulders burned from the weight set to burst forth for the second time that day.

“Padry knows the one Sir,” the elf sniffed as his hand curled tighter into Draco’s collar.

“Good, I’m going to pop you in there, all safe while I go and find Bipsy,” he said as he edged the hidden panel open with his foot and broke out into the hall.

The wind rallied through the corridor, howling with fury as the rain beat a furious rhythm against the windows.

“They came last night you said?” Draco whispered.

Padry nodded, “yes Sir, just after midnight.”

Draco’s throat clicked as he swallowed around his dry mouth. _If I hadn’t left…If mother… If…_

“Why didn’t you leave? Come and find me?”

Padry hiccupped and sniffled into Draco’s shoulder. “Padry was frightened to make a noise. They were searching the house for a long time and Padry promised Bipsy he would wait for her.” The elf’s voice broke with emotion as he finished his sentence.

“Okay, alright,” Draco breathed, as he crossed the entryway, his eyes darting back and forth, checking his path was clear. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to wait in here. I will be back as soon as I can alright?” He felt Padry nod against his shoulder. “You’re not going to make a sound until I come and find you alright? You stay quiet.” He crossed the drawing-room in a few long strides to the floo mantle. He ran a finger down the craved design of the fireplace until he felt the familiar notch. He pushed until it clicked and watched as another small hidden panel hissed open to the right on the fireplace. He toed open the entrance and knelt, wincing as his tender knees bore his weight. The secret space was nothing more than a nook, one of many hidden around the house that he and Theo had used on multiple occasions to spy on their parents. He tucked the lantern into the corner before he lowered Padry into the nook next to it. Once free, he leapt to his feet and dashed to one of the various ottomans that decorated the room. He gathered a couple of cushions and hurried back to the nook, to tuck them securely around Padry.

“Now stay here. Not a sound, understand me?” Draco urged; Padry nodded with wide eyes and a trembling lip. “If I am not back in an hour, find Pansy, Blaise, Theo or Mother. Mother is in St Mungo’s, Septimus Ward. The other three should be on errands but they live in a Penthouse by Hyde Park. Wait for them there. Understand? One hour. If I’m not back - go.” A huge tear broke free from Padry’s large brown eyes and trailed down his cheek as he nodded slowly, his hat still clutched to his head, ears flapping as he did.

“Padry understands.”

Draco thumbed the tear away, “everything is going to be okay. I promise. I will be back,” he repeated, as he trailed his hand over the frame of the inside of the nook. “Here, see this? This is the switch to close or open the panel. See it?” Padry nodded and sniffed. “Good, I’ll be back before you know it,” he said with a weak smile as he flicked the switch. He leant back out of the way of the panel and watched as it slotted into place.

Draco blew out an unsteady breath, puffing his cheeks as he did. He rolled to his feet and set a quick pace as he retraced his steps out of the drawing-room and through the entryway. He didn’t pause at the bottom of the staircase and took them two at a time as he bounded up them, his heart pounding in his chest. In the back of his mind, he thanked whatever Gods saw fit to bestow him with the inheritance. The difference between the time where he had depended upon Willows to get up the flight, to where he barely registered his feet landing on the step before they sprang him to the next, was a stark contrast that his unconscious made. He hurtled to the left and vaulted the balcony bannister, shaving seconds from his ascent. He slowed as he breached the entry to the East Wing.

Silence.

Slowly, Draco crept forward, passing the windows that overlooked the grounds and the storm that raged outside.

The door to his bedroom stood open ajar.

He sidled up to the frame and listened.

From within the room, he could hear a faint rattling. Draco hooked his finger in the open door to pull it wider as his other hand settled on the handle of the knife that was still tucked into his waistband. Pulling it free, he slid into the room, keeping low to the ground and settled against the back of the long sofa. He peered over it into the gloom of the room. He noted that all the curtains had been closed. He edged around the sofa following the sounds of the rattling that grew louder with every step he took toward the far side of the bed.

Draco straightened and held out his free hand to reach for the poster of his bed as he leant around it. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before he could make out the shape of Bipsy’s body on the floor.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, tucking the knife back into his waistband as he stepped over her and knelt.

“Bipsy?” His hands fluttered over her, checking for signs of life. The rattling sound reached his ears again.

Draco leant over and slowly lowered his head to her little chest. The rattling noise was loud in his ear as Bipsy drew in a breath. A visceral wave of relief spread over Draco so sharply he could have cried. “Thank fu-”

His exclamation faltered as he straightened and realised the side of his face that had touched Bipsy’s chest, had come away warm. He ran his hand down his cheek and rubbed the dark viscous liquid that came away between his fingers. His eyes strained as they focus back on the small form. He noted the ominous shadow that bloomed over her torso. His heart plummeted and cracked into pieces as the itch in his shoulders finally gave way. He grunted with the effort as he felt his wings spring forth, tearing the shirt on his back as they splayed awkwardly in the confined space by the side of the bed.

“Oh Bipsy,” he whispered.

“Mas-” The elf wheezed before rasping a wet cough.

“Easy girl,” Draco urged, securing a hand under her thin shoulders to support her. “I’m here. You’re going to be alright.”

“Bips-” She coughed again.

“Hush, you’ll be fine. I’ll get you out of here, I’ll just find something to-”

“Bipsy is dead, sir,” the elf wheezed.

Draco blinked, frowning in confusion. “No, you’re not yet. We’ll get you-”

“Master Draco,” Bispy breathed, the rattle of her chest was sickeningly loud to Draco’s ears. “They came for you.” She gasped as she drew in another breath, “you must hide.” 

“Hush, you can tell me when we ge-”

“Bipsy is not leaving,” she rushed. “But Master must go,” her strangled inhale sounded harshly as she struggled, “before they return,” her throat bubbled, “and Bipsy cannot protect you.”

Draco ran a gentle finger across her cheek, “you have done enough.”

He curled his arm under her and pulled her to his chest as her breaths became more laboured. Draco’s throat clogged with grief as the elf who had raised him grew quieter. She had always been the first one there when he had had nightmares at night, right up until the night of his trial. As the movement of her chest grew shallower, he thought of the strength that the little elf had always shown: bringing him into line when he had pushed too far or wiping his tears after another row from his father. He had loved her as a young boy until his father had beaten it from him one day after he had argued over one of the other elves’ punishment.

He hadn’t argued again.

But Bipsy had always been there, even when he had been horrible to her himself.

Draco didn’t know how long he had sat there by the time she finally stilled in his arms.

A tear slid down the bridge of his nose as he hung his head in grief over her fragile body. With his free hand, he reached up and reverently slid her closed her eyes, before he curled it back under her, holding on for a moment more.

His ears pricked to the deafening silence that fell heavily upon him. It was the type of silence that nobody should have the knowledge of, but one that Draco knew well. It was a burdensome silence; cruel in its emptiness. It was deafening in its hollowness, twisting the mind of the living with its void. It is the silence that only follows death; the place where the grim walks the shadow.

And it was so easily broken.

He tilted his head and strained his ears.

Footsteps.

He looked up to see a sliver of silvery-white light dance through the gap he had left in the door.

His fingers tightened their hold on Bipsy’s body.

_Before they return,_ she had said. Fury swelled in his chest as his lip pulled back in a silent snarl over his fangs. His vision narrowed, darkening around the edges as he focused on the white light that flickered through the gap. 

Draco’s muscles tensed, his form frozen in a protective hunch over the little body he held in his arms as the door slowly opened.

He blinked against the white light that shone like a beacon so bright that it obscured the intruder’s face.

He heard the creak of leather as they crept into the room.

He watched as they stepped around the far side of the sofa, their back to the far wall. Their steps, cautious and slow.

He watched as they came closer to the bed and stood amongst the seating area.

His eyes trailed down to their feet and as they took a hesitant step to the left to lean around the bed.

He didn’t blink as the white light shone directly onto him.

He didn’t blink as the wand lowered.

He didn’t breathe as he finally saw the face of the bearer.

“Malfoy.”

_No…_

Nobody moved.

_Not her…_

Draco’s lungs burned from the breath he couldn’t release. His walls shuddered violently, threatening to break.

_Anyone but her…_

“What have you done?” Granger’s voice was venomous as the tip of her wand never strayed from its mark.

_Before they return._

“What have I done…” Draco growled menacingly as his fury overwhelmed his shock. “What did _you_ do?”

Granger’s mouth snapped shut as she blanched. “Me?”

“Yes you,” he rumbled through his clenched teeth, his fangs biting into his lips. He released his hold on Bipsy and effortlessly rolled to his feet, pulling his wings to his back with ease that only came in a mindless rage. “Was it not enough?” He took a step toward her and watched as she stepped back, golden eyes wide, her wand still trained on his chest. “What more must you take from me? Were you that pissed with your farce of a government setting me free, that you had to take an INNOCENT LIFE?!” He roared, taking another step toward her as his walls buckled under the desperate strain to stay together.

“Malf-”

“FINISH IT!” He beat a hand against his chest as he towered over her, incensed. “Take the fucking pound of flesh from me that I owe you.” He took another step and relished in predatory glee as she stepped back again.

“MA-”

“Come on Golden Girl! FINISH IT!” 

She suddenly lunged forward from her retreat, ducking low as she hooked an ankle around the back of his and threw all her weight against his chest. The breath emptied from his lungs as he landed with a **thud** awkwardly on his wings; the fission of sharp pain that ricocheted up the limbs cut through the fog of fury, clearing his senses enough for them to be swarmed by the scent of Nutmeg. Blindly, Draco made to grab Granger’s shoulders to throw her off him when she jammed her wand into the soft flesh of his throat under his jaw, forcing his neck to snap back.

“Stop,” she hissed, pressing the wand in further, as her golden eyes bore into his. “I’m not here to hurt you and I _certainly_ didn’t hurt the elf.”

Draco blinked at her and swallowed awkwardly around the wand in his throat. “Well then why the fuck are you here?” he rasped.

“Because I figured you were in danger,” she replied, her eyes strayed over to where Bipsy’s body still lay. “I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner.” She returned her gaze to his as she leant back, wand still to his throat. Draco hitched his shoulders in an attempt to relieve some pressure on the joints whilst he obstinately avoided thinking about the petite form that straddled his, as he eyed her with suspicion.

“You just _figured_ I was in danger?” he said, raising an imperious brow. “Since when did you care?” 

“I don’t,” she replied easily, “but you are part of a puzzle I’m trying to solve so I need you in one piece.” He watched as Granger’s gaze slid back to Bipsy. “What happened?”

Draco craned his neck to relieve some of the pain there. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Because we wouldn’t be having a casual chat if I wasn’t Malfoy.” She turned back to him, a sardonic expression on her face.

“Well it’s a little difficult to believe you when you have a wand in my throat Granger,” Draco replied bitingly, raising his own snarky brow back at her.

“Forgive me if I’m not quick to let you go with all things considered and after you came at me,” she replied with a cruel narrowing her eyes.

Draco shuffled his shoulders again; the pain of his crushed wings spliced down his spine and up his neck, whilst chest keened with a pain he had now grown familiar with.

“I don’t know what happened here,” he spat caustically. “I came here to pick up some stuff for my mother and nobody was about. Somebody got in through the servant’s entrance I think. One elf is dead in the kitchen, another injured,” he swallowed thickly. “I came up here to find her before I could leave with the injured one.”

Granger reeled back, her wand slipping from its point to trail dangerously down his throat.

“There’s an injured one?” She repeated before she rolled to her feet. “Where?”

Draco raised a brow and held his hands open and out as he sat up slowly, in an attempt to mitigate any need she might feel to jump him again.

“Hidden,” he replied, rolling his now free shoulders. “I couldn’t be sure that whoever it was wouldn’t come back to finish the job.” He cast her a pointed look as he got to his feet. His wings flexed and shivered behind him before they folded themselves to his back again.

“I swear Malfoy, I am not here to hurt you,” Granger said, fixing him with a steady earnest look. “You’re under my protection.”

Draco snorted. “Under the protection of the Golden Girl, how noble.”

“Of the Department of Mysteries,” she interjected.

Draco stopped, his cold smile frozen to his face as he stared at her.

Her golden eyes didn’t waver.

_Fuck…_

“Never figured you for a Spook,” Draco said lowly as his perception of her began to shift. Granger had always been the shining beacon sickening righteousness and good. _Department of Mysteries…_ He tilted his head as he appraised her: her loose stance, her sharp eyes, the way she had walked back in Azkaban – coiled and controlled. He could see the difference. She had always been a threat to him, to everything he knew and believed. Her brilliance and natural control over magic went against everything his father has beaten into him. Her tenacity to always be right, no matter the cost, had put her front and centre of the Dark Lord’s list of enemies. And yet, Draco no longer knew the scope of what she was capable of. She stood before him, a stranger.

A stranger who watched him with distrust and hostility in her dull golden eyes.

The hunger his chest burned as his fingers twitched by his side.

“People change,” she said quietly.

“Yes, they do,” he replied. He drew a quiet, unsteady breath, masking his discomfort in his chest. It felt as if every swipe of her eyes over his body twisted a knife into the hollow chasm of hunger deep within him.

Granger’s eyes flitted between his before her shoulders lowered, “let me help you with the other elf,” she implored with a foreign softness to her voice, “and we should probably get you out of here before whoever it was, comes back.”

“What about her?” Draco asked, glancing back to Bipsy’s body.

“Leave her for now,” she replied. Draco turned back to Granger, affronted. “I’ll come back and sort it, but right now, we need to get you out of here,” she added in a placating voice. 

Draco fixed her with a weighted stare before he nodded his assent. With a final look at Bipsy’s small body, he stepped around Granger, headed toward the door.

“Come on then Spook.”

He heard her huff before her footsteps joined him in the corridor. They walked in tense silence while Draco’s mind played as much havoc as the storm that still raged outside: in one breath he hated the idea of leaving his back exposed to her, in the next, he instinctively trusted her to be there. A duality of logic and reason. His walls trembled once more.

_Fucking birdbrain._

He glanced back at her as he started to descend the stairs. There was a slight crease in her brow as her eyes roamed over his wings, seemingly unaware him watching her.

“The irony is not lost on me,” he said conversationally, pocketing his hands as he continued his descent.

The quiet stretched between them, to the point that Draco thought she wouldn’t reply.

“Believe it or not, that brings me no pleasure to hear that.”

Draco stepped onto the ground floor and half turned to look at her as he continued forward. “Really…none at all?”

“No Malfoy,” she sighed, an exhausted expression crossing her features. “It will bring me no satisfaction to treat you, how you did me.”

“And how did I treat you?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could make them disappear. He hadn’t thought, they had just escaped his throat without his permission.

_How quickly can I disappear?_

“Like I wasn’t human,” she stated quietly. A dead weight settled in the pit of Draco’s stomach as a wave of nausea washed over him. He felt a cruel smirk settle on his lips as he looked back at her – though he couldn’t tell if it were aimed more to her or himself.

“You’ve always got to be better than me, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she said simply, her eyes flashing. “I do.”

_Look up the definition of self-flagellation, Malfoy,_ Draco thought bitterly, turning his back to her again as they crossed the entryway. _Don’t remind her why she hates you, for fuck’s sake._

He swallowed heavily and rolled his shoulders. 

_Silence, freedom…_

The frozen tundra twinkled pristinely in his mind; its ice crept forward like glassy webs, crinkling and cracking as it encroached on his walls, freezing in place the memories in a winter palace.

He suddenly felt lighter and a glance over his shoulder confirmed the disappearance of his wings. His eyes met Granger’s whose only response was a twitch in her brow.

He ignored her silent question.

“He’s through here,” Draco said, blinking away the image as he crossed the drawing-room. He fingered the notch on the fireplace and crossed over to kneel by the panel as it opened.

“Master?”

“All good,” Draco replied easily. “There’s someone here who is going to help,” he said as he reached into the nook and pulled Padry to him, wincing as his still tender knees bore his weight.

“Do you have somewhere else away from here you can stay Malfoy?” Granger said as she approached them, eyeing the elf in his arms. She offered a small smile as she ducked to meet his eyes. “Hello there,” she said gently. Draco felt Padry’s hand curl in his collar.

“This is Miss Granger Padry. And yes, Hyde Park.”

He fought the wince as he scolded himself; _yes, birdbrain, just tell the Golden Spook who is definitely spying on you where you live._

“Hyde Park?”

“Yes,” he nodded. _Shut up Malfoy._ “Penthouse, Hyde Park Gardens.” _Shut up!_ “The floo is attached.”

He bit his lip to stop himself from talking any further. _Wonderful - truly._

“Alright, let’s get you both there safe, and then I’ll come back to deal with the rest,” Granger said briskly, stepping around him to get to the floo.

“It’s the black pot just there,” Draco said with a nod of his head. It took Granger a second more before she plucked it from the mantle. She held it out to him with an expectant look on her face. Begrudgingly, Draco grabbed a pinch in his hand and threw it into the grate, murmuring the address.

“Hold on tight,” he said quietly to Padry, securing his grip on the small elf as he walked into the fire and whizzed up the flue into the floo network.

Unlike last time, no one was there to greet him as he stepped out onto the hearth. He hurried over to the sofa to place Padry down as the flames burst green behind him.

“Huh.”

Draco turned to see Granger eyeing the visible surroundings. “What?” he asked.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” she replied, seemingly coming back into focus as she headed straight to where Padry sat on the sofa. Her wand slipped from her sleeve as she knelt to get a closer look.

“This may sting a little,” she said softly as she waved her wand over Padry’s feet. Piece by piece, the crystals fell with a **clink** as they landed on the floor. Draco sat next to him and carefully began to unwrap the ruined suit jacket from his torso. He heard a hissed inhale and looked over to see Granger eyeing the newly exposed wound with trepidation.

“Okay,” she said quietly, before beginning a melodic chant that sounded alien to Draco’s ears. He struggled to follow the rise and fall of the harsh consonants as he watched Padry’s skin knit itself back together.

When the last of it was mended, Draco gently pried the chef’s hat from Padry’s head. Again, Granger restarted her chant, her voice caressing the words that fell from her lips. Draco turned to her; her golden eyes writhed with intensity as she focused on her spellwork - the molten honey. Her red lips shaped around the words with an artist’s touch, taking care to be exact in their pronunciation and honest in the love she poured into the utterance.

The knife twisted deeper into his chest.

He tore his eyes from her and focused back on Padry who placed his small hand on Draco’s as he looked up at Granger with his huge brown eyes. Draco ran a soothing thumb of the little fingers that curled over his.

“All done. I’m not a healer so keep an eye on him please,” she said sternly to Draco as she straightened.

“Of course,” Draco replied, affronted.

Granger’s eyes snapped to his, dulling their hue as they did. “I meant, just in case there are complications.”

Draco raised his brow as his lip curled. “Right,” he drawled. Granger’s chest puffed as she drew breath to argue but Draco continued, “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he said, reassuringly.

Whatever Granger had been about to say was lost, as Draco watched the pink of her tongue ran over her bottom lip.

The knife wrenched further, opening the chasm wider and the frost set deeper into his walls.

“Good, I’ll head back to the Manor if that’s okay with you?” she to him expectantly. Unsure, Draco nodded. “I’ll begin an investigation, see if we can figure out who broke in. What you uh-” She glanced at Padry, “what would you like done with the bodies?”

Draco swallowed, “we’ll bury them.”

Surprise coloured Granger’s features, her wide eyes searched his. “Right.” She said after a moment. “Of course, well I’ll get that ready for you.” She hesitated, her eyes still searching his. “May I come by and see you tomorrow? I’ll fill you in on this, and I need to ask you some questions anyway.”

“Yes,” Draco blurted, before thinking. _This is becoming an unfortunate habit._ “That’s fine, just let me know when and I’ll make myself available.”

“Thank you,” Granger said, stepping toward the floo. “You should probably disconnect this from the Manor,” she added.

“I’ll take it into consideration, Unspeakable Granger.”

A few wild curls escaped her haphazard up-do as her head snapped back to affix him with a dull gold stare.

Draco remained rooted as ice crinkled and cracked further into him, reaching down into the chasm.

With a final nod, Granger reached for the pot on the mantle and disappeared in a plume of green flame, while the shards of ice fractured in Draco’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... So, how are we all? Need a hot minute?
> 
> As usual, would love to hear your thoughts and theories and kudos is love.


	12. Intermission: Gibel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO FOR ONE THIS WEEK! I'm spoiling you because I'm rather fond of all of you. I had to get this next bit down before I get swamped with work next week.
> 
> I haven't had a chance yet to reply to the reviews on the last chapter, but I just wanted to say thank you for your wonderfully kind words. I cannot express how happy it makes me to see how you react to the characters. Forever grateful to all of you. 
> 
> ...I am not consistent, I think we can all agree on that. So here's a short one - I like to keep you on your toes. 
> 
> I don't think there are any TRIGGERS here, but please let know if there are, and I shall amend, muchos love. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy allllll of the plot devises! 
> 
> *exits stage right with evil laughter echoing in the wings*

**_“Hell is empty. All the devils are here.”_ **

_\- William Shakespeare, The Tempest_

**Chapter 12 - Intermission: Gibel**

* * *

* * *

**_Sometime in the afternoon of the 11 th of September, 1999 - Azkaban Prison, North Sea_ **

_Penance – a novel concept._

The cold sun shone from behind a darkened cloud, filtering grey light in through a barred window.

_Justice – laughable._

The sound of rising chatter filtered under the heavy iron door.

“I wonder what’s on the menu today,” Lucius Malfoy muttered to himself as he picked the black scum from his nails. He hummed a shanty tune that he’d heard one of the guards singing a few days prior that had stuck in his head ever since, festering like a seeping wound, burrowing into his –

“The king and his,” he mumbled as he tilted his head to better hear the commotion in the hall, “men, stole the queen from her bed.” A door **banged** , “and bound her in her bones.” Barks of shout from the cells around his sounded. “The seas be ours and by the powers, where we,” the metal clasp of the food hole scraped open, “will, we’ll roam.”

Lucius stretched out his legs, clicking his stiff joints before putting his filthy feet to the floor. “Thieves and beggars,” he continued to sing under his breath as he ambled over to the door before squatting down, “never shall we di – Good Afternoon Thompson,” he called amiably through the gap.

“Afternoon Mr Malfoy,” sounded a gruff cockney accent from the other side.

“Say, how’s the weather today?” Lucius replied with false cheer.

“I hear it’s blowin’ a mad one down in Landan sir,” Thompson replied darkly, “me ol’ ma said it’s not lookin’ too good on the horizon neither sir. Storm’s gonna get worse, she said.”

Lucius grunted, “well that’s a bother.” _What could possibly happen in the Ministry that could cause that much of a ruckus nowadays?_

“Here ya are sir, grub’s up.” A tray topped with a silver dome slid in through the gap, “I’ll be back in an hour to pick it up.”

The heavy panel crunched back into place as Lucius picked up the tray and crossed the cell to his bed. Once seated, he lifted the dome and let out a sound of surprised delight.

“Wonderful, foie gras parfait, is this…” he picked up the silver knife, dipped it into the rich red jellied substance and dabbed it delicately to the end of his tongue. “Oh yes, grape chutney and toasted broccoli.” He admired the artist presentation of food on his plate, “yes, quite lovely, but did you pair it well?” He picked up the water bottle with his filthy hands and twisted the top, waving the open neck under his nose. A deep smile curled his lips as he tipped the bottle back and hummed with pleasure as the ice-cold white wine caressed his tongue, “Sauternes, you do spoil me so.”

He set into his meal, eyeing the folded newspaper that lay obnoxiously by the side of his plate. He hadn’t received one the day before – something about a commotion in the prison had the whole system off. It happened from time to time, so it hadn’t been a cause for concern. But he ignored the paper nonetheless, in favour of savouring every component and flavour of his dish; a content smile lingering on his lips from every sip of his wine. As he chewed his food, he absently hummed the shanty tune, bobbing his head with every off-beat.

Finally, when he had scrapped the plate clean and leant against the wall, he picked up the newspaper that was folded neatly next to his plate. He flicked it open, taking a sip of his wine.

He choked.

He gasped, trying to inhale as he coughed to clear the wine that had gone down the wrong way.

_Old Rules Still Favour the Elite: Ministry Sets Monster Free._

Lucius snatched the newspaper, eyes wide as they roamed over the article, devouring the words and information. Horror crept over him, upsetting his full stomach, as he realised what had happened. While on the one hand, he was overjoyed that his son was free. On the other -

“Those FUCKERS!” He roared between clenched teeth. _How dare they! My son!_ “After everything, EVERYTHING, they go after my SON?!”

His re-read the article and the subsequent follow-up in the social column on Draco’s inheritance.

 _My poor boy,_ he thought as read the gossip predictions on what he would be like a Veela. _Glorious is how he'll be._

But then Lucius’ blood boiled. He knew he was not a good man. He knew he done a lot of things in his time that would not be considered… palatable. But his loyalty had always been to his family. Any agenda that would further the family, that is how it had always been. The Dark Lord was just one of the numerous factions that the Malfoy’s were embroiled in - some dating back centuries. Movements, ideas, all served with the understanding that the Malfoy name would come out on-top. Some of these movements were obvious – like the Dark Lord’s. But others...others had been lying in the shadows for years, waiting for the right moment, the right set circumstances, the right stars to align to enact their very precise plan.

Lucius didn’t know what any of these plans were, he’d never really been bothered with the other causes other than the Dark Lord’s. He paid lip service to them, donated where he could, pushed money into the right pockets, played the right political move to push through a certain agenda when they had asked him to.

Just as all the Malfoy patriarchs had done before him.

Of course, he couldn’t say for sure. The convenience of Draco’s release under an obscure law and the severity of his inheritance that was on full display in the paper could just be luck.

Except.

He had received a visit hadn’t he, some years ago.

“Oh yes, I did…”

A man from one of Nicholas’ causes wasn’t he.

“Oh yes, he was…”

And hadn’t he asked for an amendment to be made to the very same Bylaw that had served as his son’s defence?

“Oh yes, he did.” Spittle flew from Lucius’ clenched teeth as he growled.

The right set of circumstances, _the right ingredients_ , he had said. “ _And of course, we’ll always be loyal to the Malfoys, after all, you are our greatest hope at getting one of the ingredients.”_

No, Lucius didn’t know for sure, but he was pretty certain he had connected the dots on this.

They were coming for his son.

**Knock, knock.**

The food panel scrapped open.

“Any good?” Thompson’s cheerful voice piped through. Lucius picked up the tray and squatted down, placing the tray just in from the hole.

“Delightful Thompson, my compliments to the chef as per usual. Magnificent job,” he reached forward and snatched the guard’s hand as it made to grab. “I need you to do a little something for me.”

“Mr Malfoy?” Thompson replied with a hint of worry.

“I need you to get Kingsley Shacklebolt. I don’t care how you do it, but I want him here.”

“Uh Mr Malfoy, I’m not gonna bring the Minister here just so you can uh – y’know, off him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous boy!” Lucius hissed, tightening his grip on Thompson’s hand. “It’s for a meeting. He thinks all the ghouls and monsters are Death Eaters, he has no idea of the rot that actually lies in his cabinet. Get him and I’ll tell him everything he wants to know about the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters, everything.” He released the hand with harsh push, “you have no room for failure here Thompson, and time is precious.”

“Yes sir!” Thompson barked with only a touch of desperation, pulling the tray through and snapping the panel shut.

No, he wasn’t a good man, he mused as he stood, walking over to his window that looked out at the angry sea. He curled his foul fingers around the bars as he watched the frothy waves roll into one another, absently humming the shanty tune once again. _But I have learned my lesson,_ his knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip.

“The king and his men, stole the Queen from her bed,” _I will burn them all if they hurt my son._ “The seas be ours and by the powers, where we will, we’ll roam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have any theories yet? Till next time...
> 
> Come say hi at: https://thusatlas.tumblr.com/ Ask me anything, let's get a conversation going! I'd love to get to know you all more!


	13. Moscow Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no speak! I AM EXHAUSTED! Thank you for all your patience during this time. I'm hoping that as soon as I settle into work, I may be able to get chapters out faster. As for this chapter, all of the weaving of the threads to bring this plot together!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> And a huge hello to all the new readers!!! I'm delighted to have you with us on this journey! 
> 
> TRIGGERS - brief mentions of death and trafficking; panic attack. I can't think of any others, however, if I'm wrong, let me know and I'll amend, muchos love x
> 
> Any and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Now, without further ado, grab some popcorn and your beverage of choice, and enjoy!

**_1 – Assume nothing_ **

**_2 – Never go against your gut._ **

**_3 – Everyone is potentially under opposition control._ **

**_4 – Don’t look back; you are never completely alone._ **

**_5 – Go with the flow, blend in._ **

**_6 – Vary your pattern and stay with your cover._ **

**_7 – Lull them into a sense of complacency._ **

**_8 – Don’t harass the opposition._ **

**_9 – Pick the time and place for action._ **

**_10 – Keep your options open._ **

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_\- Tony Mendez – ‘By the time they got to Moscow, everyone knew these rules.’_

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** Chapter 13 – Moscow Rules **

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**_16:15 pm, 10 th of September, 1999 - Soteria, Soho, London, UK_ **

Humans naturally partition experience to make sense of the information they gather from the world around them. A natural consequence of this is that the one true fear of humankind is the unknown because of its void of information that can only be filled by the seductive whispers of fear. Every facet of the human experience has a name or label attached, be it: politics, religion, fashion, countries, generations etcetera, and these labels carry connotations and meanings that are culturally and implicitly understood by society. Over the centuries, scholars from philosophy, sociology, archaeology and psychology have devoted their lives to explaining the human condition from the perspective of their school of thought; as such, there is an abundance of crossover in their lexicons. One such case is the word ‘schema’. Schema comes from the Greek word ‘schemata’ meaning form, shape or figure and was used by the ancient Greeks to make sense of matter. In the fifth century, wizards Leucippus and Democritus, applied ‘schemata’ in an ontological perspective to describe the features of the atom that grasp together with movement and thus allow for measurement of their position in space, time and colour – the combinations of which, have no limitations. The muggle Plato then used ‘schemata’ in two different ways. The first referred to figures of speech where schema described the artistic composition of worlds. The second referred to misleading behaviour and action creating a mirror of truth in a false world. The muggle Aristotle used ‘schema’ within metaphysics to clarify his notion of form or logic within the context of syllogism. Next, the wizard Theophrastus gave ‘schema’ a more scientific implication by first separating sensibility and understanding, and then contrasting that with the objectivity of comprehending elements that cannot be understood by the senses (atoms) and that are only measurable via their schema (form and shape within space and time).

And so the schema of schemata was moulded and shaped, unwound and stripped only to be reformed anew by scholar after scholar until Immanuel Kant, who then founded the school of Transcendental schema (it is unknown if Kant was a wizard or muggle). The premise of Kant’s idea was that the objective categorical procedure leaves a sense of impression that is then subject to the intuition of the individual who perceived the external object. This idea birthed an entirely new school of psychological theory, come the turn of the twentieth century: individuals use information from their experiences, to organise categories of impressions that denote external objects and an individual’s relationship to them. On a day to day basis, this is an entirely natural and unconscious process, helping an individual to implicitly and intuitively know that a toilet belongs in the bathroom and not in the living room; that Trafalgar Square is home to the global population of pigeon - not pelican; that the buses of London are red - not green, and that the taxis are black - not fluorescent pink and covered in feathers.

The human mind handles this complex filing system with ease; the individual is never aware that it happens and but only that the world makes sense.

Which is why there is an exquisite feeling of being wrong-footed when schemata are broken.

It’s a particularly aberrant feeling, one akin to delving into the Uncanny Valley. Discomfort in the unfamiliar, like velvet brushed the wrong way, but not harmful or treacherous. It can only be found only in a particular set of circumstances. These are not often identified because humans build the world according to their inherent schemata. And for some peculiar reason that he had yet to figure out, it was a feeling that never failed to bring a wave of calmness to Theo’s existence.

He placed his hands deep into the pockets of his greatcoat as he skipped down the stairs of Soteria, blue smoke curling from his lips. He stepped out onto the veranda and leant against the bannister that overlooked the main dance floor. The club was lit by the warm glow of the fireplaces and chandeliers, the coloured ambient lights turned low. Julien Hargreaves, the mixologist who made the best Old Fashioned, in Theo’s humble opinion, was behind the bar wiping down glasses while he laughed with Olivia, the dancer, who twirled her hair coquettishly while smiling up at him. He scanned the room and saw Noah, her twin, stretching by the main stage, talking to a man in a sharp suit.

_Must be headlining again._

Here and there, people sat at the tables, heads low in civilised conversation, while lo-fi smoothly slipped from the speakers that were hidden around the building. The shift into the night time crowd hadn’t hit yet. He pushed off the bannister, rounding the veranda to duck down one of the off-shoot corridors. His chest loosened as he smiled around another drag of his cigarette. It was always strange to him, seeing Soteria in social hours. While the twisting catacombs and high arches served as a respectable cocktail bar during day-light hours, there was something weirdly alluring about being in the club without the booming heavy bass, scantily clad writhing masses and the main lights on. It was like the club was naked and vulnerable when the music was soft and the sun was in the sky.

Theo vanished the remnants of his cigarette as he descended the narrow stone staircase that led to the lower floor. He lifted a lazy wave to Julien and Olivia as he stepped out and headed toward the back offices.

“Any news of Thyrra?” Called Olivia as he passed, her Romanian accent rolling the ‘r’s. A thread of anxiety spiked through him.

“Not yet,” Theo replied, half turning - not slowing his walk. “I’m sure she’s fine,” he added with a wide placating smile. Though Olivia’s fae features furrowed in concern, she nodded her understanding before refocusing on Julien. Theo hastily turned back toward his destination, hands once more pocketed, eager to slip away before anyone else asked more questions he couldn’t answer. He shouldered open the back door and slipped into the narrow passageway that housed the admin offices.

“Afternoon,” he barked as he passed Amelia’s open door. Amelia Hunt was Soteria’s legitimate muggle bookkeeper.

“Afterno - Oh Mr Nott!”

She also terrified him.

He skidded to a halt and backtracked a couple of steps to pause outside her office, to see her raven eyes blink at him over the rim of her glasses.

“Are you on your way to see Mr Zabini by any chance?”

Theo nodded hesitantly, eyeing up the corridor before returning his gaze to the accountant. “Yes, why, what’s up?”

A lock of red hair slipped out from behind her ear as she assessed him.

“Can you pass on a gentle reminder that I need the books from last month signed off please?” Her question was pleasantly professional – which is exactly why she terrified Theo.

“Of course, I’ll get to that now. Anything else?”

“No,” she said, waving him away, her attention already back on her work. “That’ll be all.”

“Right,” Theo muttered, backing away before spinning on his heel and heading straight for Blaise’s office. Amelia never showed any emotion. Ever. No matter how annoyed or pissed off she had been in the past at something, she had always remained unruffled and cold.

Theo didn’t stop as he reached the end of the hall and instead, knocked the door as he opened it, swinging into the office with a dramatic flourish of his swaying greatcoat.

“Theodore,” Blaise intoned from where he leant over his desk, not looking up.

“Amelia says that for every day you don’t sign last month’s books, she going to kill a beloved household pet and leave it on your desk,” Theo said, jamming a thumb over his shoulder to the open corridor.

“Bollocks,” Blaise swore as he stirred into action, rifling through the pile of paperwork on the side of his desk. He brandished a grey book in victory, a wide grin on his face as he jogged toward Theo, who sidestepped out of the way. He heard Blaise’s muffled apologies through the open door as he crossed the office to pour himself a finger of whiskey from the crystal carafe. He paused to greet Blaise’s owl that was sat perched on a decorative tree statue next to the desk. He ran a gentle finger over Hecate’s glossy black feathers, before settling into one of the wingback chairs that sat opposite the desk.

It was only a moment before he heard the quiet **snick** of the door closing.

“You got it?” Blaise asked; Theo heard his footsteps cross the room behind him and the **pop** of the decanter top.

“Of course,” Theo replied as Blaise rounded the desk, tumbler in hand. He watched as Blaise set down the glass, only to snatch a blank scroll from the side drawer and ink an impressive peacock quill, before scratching out a short note. Once done, he rolled the parchment and sealed it with a swish of his wand and a muttered spell as he crossed over to Hecate’s perch.

“Iskandar,” he ordered as he attached the scrolled to the Black Banded owl's leg. He stroked her feathers lovingly as he stepped over the window and threw it open. He watched a moment as she disappeared into the sky before closing it again and returning to the desk. He lowered himself into his chair on the other side and settled his gaze on Theo.

He gave a curious look as he asked, “how did it go?”

“Smoothly, not a problem,” Theo replied as he reached into his inside pocket and carefully extracted the manuscript, placing it delicately on the desk between them. The leather of Blaise’s chair creaked as he leant forward to peer at the document’s aged pages. Theo extracted his wand from his sleeve and used the tip to carefully open the manuscript to a random page. The particular page he had landed on was evidently a larger piece of parchment that was folded to fit the frame of the book. Using the tip of this wand, Theo cautiously unravelled the folds until it spread wide over the desk. The singular page was double the length and triple the width of the others and bore the meticulously detailed illustration of a chamber system, labelled in the Voynich code. Once again, Theo became enamoured with the alien writing, his eyes hungrily devouring each etching on the page: its sloped curves, its jaunty peaks and crests. In one light, the illustration could have been a map, depicting the connection between five cities. In a different light, it could have been an alchemical formula.

“Did you know it’s never been translated?” Theo said quietly, his voice soft in reverence as he continued to analyse the script.

“No, I know nothing about it. What is this?” Blaise said, his voice holding equal awe.

Theo shrugged, “to be honest with you mate, I’m not sure if I’d want to know.”

Blaise blanched as he looked up at Theo, “why not?”

“It’s a secret,” Theo said simply, leaning back as he took a sip from his tumbler. “This manuscript holds a secret - maybe many - who knows! But it’s not from the lack of trying. Magical and muggle, no-one can figure it out. We don’t even know how old it is,” he stressed, with a loose hand gesturing to the open page. “Whatever this thing is, it wasn’t meant for us to know, which makes me wary of whoever wants it and what is actually in it.”

Blaise raised a sceptical eyebrow as he sat back in his chair, “no-one’s cracked it?”

“Who exactly are we selling this too?” Theo questioned.

“Eris Iskandar and Albin Perry.”

Theo’s brows shot up in surprise. “Iskandar as in the vampires?”

“They’re not vampires,” Blaise tutted disapprovingly. “They’re just…European,” he finished with a half-shrug.

“Excuse me, but have you ever met Serafino Iskandar? Vampi-”

“He’s not.”

“He is!”

“You know it was the Malfoy’s who came up with that, right? Bianca Iskandar slighted Narcissa at some Midsummer gathering or something,” Blaise commented, taking another sip of his drink.

“How do you know that?”

“Draco told me back in fourth year when the rumour had a sudden revival because of the Iskandar in the Durmstrang lot.”

Theo paused a moment, casting his mind back. “Huh,” he finally said, vaguely recalling the vampire gossip in the Slytherin common room. “That was Narcissa?”

Blaise nodded sagely, “apparently. It’s on-brand, so I’m inclined to believe it. Either way,” he said, leaning forward on his desk once more, “the Iskandars aren’t vampires.”

“That you know of…” Theo grumbled into his tumbler as he took another sip. “What do they want with this anyway?” he said, resting the glass back on the arm of his chair.

Blaise sighed, eyeing the manuscript, “I have no idea.” He suddenly frowned, switching his focus to Theo. “Why do you care all of a sudden? You’ve never asked this many questions before.”

“Uh… well…” Theo shifted in his seat. “TheGryffindorsgotinmyhead.”

Blaise blinked at him while his thumb travelled lazily over the smooth surface of his glass. After a minute of silence, he spoke, “nope, I have no idea what you just said. Try again.”

Theo sighed, rubbing his fingers across his brow in a frustrated manner.

“I said, the Gryffindors may have uh, gotten in my head,” he all but whispered as he intensely inspected the grain of Blaise’s desk. He could feel Blaise’s gaze burrowing into him as he obstinately avoided eye-contact.

“What _exactly_ does that mean Theodore?” Blaise’s voice growled.

“Well…” He hedged, shifting in his seat again and turning his attention to the rows of the bookcases behind Blaise. “You see, Granger knows a lot of stuff but even she doesn’t know anything about the Voynich.”

“Firstly, Theodore, tell me why Granger even thought to speak on the topic,” Blaise asked, his voice low as his fingers steepled under his chin, “then I’d like for you to tell me how you ended up having a conversation with the White Queen of the Wizarding World in the first place.”

Theo let out a half-hearted chuckle, “it is a bit of a wei-”

“Quit playing coy, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, don’t worry! The manuscript is here, isn’t it?” he exclaimed, gesturing to the still open document.

“Yes, but the last I saw you, you were running around with The Chosen Auror and now you’re telling me that you had a conversation with his best gal-pal about the said script. Did you not think, that as soon as it turns up on the news, Little Miss Perfect is going to put two and two together and tell Potter?! -” Blaise’s voice rose as his anger gathered momentum.

“Ah well, about that…” Theo said over Blaise’s rant.

“ - Did you not think for more than _two se -_ ” Blaise reeled back, suddenly processing Theo’s words. “What do you mean ‘ah about that’?” he said in an exaggerated mockery.

“Well…”

“Theo I swear on Salazar’s cock, I will -”

“Harry came with me.”

Time seemed to stop as the two men stared at one another across the expansive desk, their drags of whiskey lying forgotten in the bottom of their tumblers.

“I don’t think I heard you right,” Blaise sniffed, his tone as professionally pleasant as Amelia the Murderess-Accountant.

Theo reached into his pocket and withdrew his cigarette packet.

“Look, I get you. Huge risk, but hear me out on this one.” He placed a cigarette between his teeth and lit it with a snap of his fingers. “This is Harry Potter. On the one hand, if I do get caught, it’ll somehow be spun that I was inadvertently saving the world because Harry was there. Gods forbid their Chosen One steps a toe out of line. No,” he pursed his lips around the butt and pulled the burnt fumes across his tongue, “the level of mental gymnastics the government would do to make it so that he’s not a criminal would be phenomenal. So don’t worry there. As for Harry being an Auror, well… he’s not,” he finished lamely, a frown creasing his brows.

He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened there. Theo had waited for Harry to send an owl enquiring why and when he could come in. They didn’t have to wait long. A prompt response arrived within fifteen minutes informing him that ‘ _tomorrow would be best_ ’ and that it was within the probationary period of his contract, and so providing a reason for termination was not obligatory.

Theo’s stomach twisted. As he had sat there, watching Potter run his hands through his already chaotic hair, he had become convinced that he was to blame. What were the chances that it was a coincidence; he had dragged Harry Potter - a boy who was made to be an Auror - with him on a heist, only to be fired moments later for a completely unconnected reason?

_No._

_And now, as of tomorrow, Harry will know that that was the case, and he will rightly resent the shit out of me for swanning into his life for all of five minutes, only to fuck it up._

_“Because you are poison, boy,”_ the ghost of his father whispered in his ear. He had said it so often during his childhood, that it had almost become a term of endearment. That, and the loving nickname that had stemmed from it around Theo’s fifth birthday – Hemlock.

Theodore Nott Senior had hardly ever called his son by his actual name again after that invention.

One of Blaise’s perfectly sculpted brows rose quizzically, “Potter’s not an Auror?”

“No, he was fired today.”

“Oh,” was all Blaise replied as he leant back heavily in his chair. “And what about Granger, what does she do now?”

“I think she’s a researcher by the sounds of it. But anyway, she was all for the plan. She was the one that suggested Harry come along infact – what now?”

Blaise’s face had morphed into a look of blatant incredulity. “She was all for the plan…”

“Yeah, I know, took me b-”

“So it’s not even that she’s going to have to put two and two together because you've already told her the whole fucking plan?!”

“Ah, right… yes, I see your po-”

“THEO! What were you thinking?!”

Theo winced at the sudden volume change.

“Have you ever sat in Harry Potter’s living room, drinking his tea, whilst being interrogated by two-thirds of the Golden Trio? Have you ever tried to lie to that green-eyed fuck?!” He shoved his hand roughly through his hair, pulling the roots taut. “Have you ever even spoken to him?!”

“I really don’t see what that’s got to do with anything,” Blaise commented haughtily.

“It’s _impossible_ Blaise! He looks at you with these big eyes and before you know it, you’re buying into this whole righteous nonsense. I mean, they’ve got a point! Who are the people we’re selling this too? We don’t know what they want it for, what if it’s really bad?” Theo said imploringly, as he leant forward and tapped the desk repeatedly with a long pointed finger for emphasis.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, you’re cock-whipped,” Blaise lamented as he leant over to bury his shaking head into his hands.

“I am _not,_ I thank you!” Theo exclaimed, folding his arms pompously in defence. “I’m just saying, he’s got a point.”

“How many times have you pictured debauching Potter?” Blaise shot back, raising his head enough to lift an imperious brow at Theo.

“Now _that’s_ really beside the point,” Theo huffed, glancing off to the side.

“No, it’s exactly the point! What else has this green-eyed doe made you agree too, ay? Telling him our entire clientele roster? Our past escapades? Sold him your soul perhaps?”

“No nothing like that,” Theo said dismissively, turning back.

“So there is something,” Blaise edged, a sharp, knowing look in his eyes.

“Well, the whole thing is finding out what these people want so obviously that means that Potter’s coming to the handover.”

Theo stated it with far more confidence than he felt.

Blaise sat unmoving behind his desk, framed by the austere wings of his chair, staring at him. Theo eyed him cautiously, wondering if he’d broken his friend. He had just started to become concerned when Blaise emitted an elongated, guttural groan as he folded forward and began to bang his head, methodically against the desk.

“It’ll be fine Blaise,” Theo cooed, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “Stop making a big deal. We’ll disguise him or keep him out of sight.”

“Why couldn’t you fall for a nice boy?” Blaise whined, pausing his Shakespearean display of tragedy.

“Oh behave, what are you? A teenage girl?” Theo scoffed.

“I’m not the one whose intelligence has dropped because a pretty boy batted his lashes,” Blaise threw back.

Theo paused, his lips pursed in thought, his eyes narrowed as he looked off, unseeingly into the middle-distance.

“He does have very long eyelashes,” he agreed a moment later, as the soft **thump** of Blaise’s forehead against the desk, resumed once more. “Seriously Blaise, it’ll be fine. Calm down. Now, what’s the plan?”

Blaise lifted his head and leant back in his chair, levelling Theo with a weary look.

“You’re actually serious aren’t you,” he stated, his eyes cool as they searched Theo’s face.

“Yep,” Theo replied, popping the ‘p’. His stomach stirred with unease as the waves of Blaise's disappointment rolled across the desk.

_Double-down._

Blaise blew out a long-drawn-out sigh as he swiped a hand over his face.

“Fuck,” he muttered before he affixed Theo with a severe look. “He’s your responsibility. They’ll get the full Welcome Mat because I don’t want Iskandar and Perry spooked or stressed in anyway alright?”

Theo nodded in understanding. The fraught atmosphere in the office melted as they settled into the familiar patter of work.

“I’ve sent a note to let them know we have it and when they want to collect. As soon as we hear back, we’ll arrange the meet.”

“Reasonable,” Theo concluded, taking the final drag from his cigarette before vanishing the butt. Blue smoke curled from his nose as he held his breath, leaking out the air slowly whilst he relished in the burn of his lungs.

Again, a wave of calmness washed over him as he realised the carpet had been pulled from beneath his feet. From all the previous times in which he and Blaise had had this conversation, none had ever been about doing something _good._ Every one had been about some illegal activity committed by, either himself or Pansy (and on the rare occasion Blaise); every one had been a plan for some nefarious conspiracy. And he had never batted an eye nor blinked twice at the thought – it was normal, it was who he was. He and his ilk lived in the shadows; they took what they wanted because they had to. The world had taken their innocence and had left them used and jaded.

As the silence settled between them, Theo realised that something had fundamentally changed. 

Theo and Blaise spoke the same rapport, sat in the same positions that they had done a thousand times before – yet the tune that they danced to was different.

The tense lines of his shoulders and in the creases in the corner of his eyes illustrated how Blaise felt it too.

They had stepped into unfamiliar territory.

Theo’s gaze drifted to the Voynich manuscript that lay between them. It no longer resembled a pay-day, but a tool - a means to an end. His eyes met Blaise’s as he looked back up. He released the grasp on his lungs, expelling the last of the burnt fumes in defeat as he stepped into a free fall. The manuscript was now a risk. The meeting was a risk. The financial gain that they would receive would now be tarnished; Theo consciously acknowledged that it would feel like taking blood money.

“Fuck,” he whispered, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed between his shoulders.

“I am so angry with you right now,” Blaise said quietly.

Theo snorted and lifted his head to flash Blaise a wry smile. “I apologise for resetting your moral compass.”

Blaise opened his mouth to reply when a sharp **tap** at the window interrupted them.

“That was quick,” Blaise murmured, as he rose smoothly from his seat. He crossed the office and opened the window. Hecate fluttered over to her perch where she posed regally, awaiting to be relieved of the scroll tied to her leg. Blaise untied the knot and offered her a treat from the jar he kept on his desk before he sat down and unravelled the note. Theo watched apprehensively as Blaise’s brow rose in surprise.

“What is it?” he asked.

“They’re on their way,” Blaise said darkly as he threw the scroll over the desk. Theo plucked it up before it rolled over the edge and unravelled it:

_Mr Zabini,_

_Thank you for your efficiency in this endeavour. You have caught us at an opportune time, which is of the essence. We shall be arriving at Soteria within the hour to finish the transaction._

_Eris._

Theo made a noise in the back of his throat as he rolled the note back up.

“What’s the rush?” he said, frowning as unease settled in his stomach once more.

“I don’t know and I didn’t care till twenty minutes ago,” Blaise snapped back as he drained the last of his whiskey. He slammed the empty tumbler down on the desk and turned his glittering eyes to Theo. “You better get loverboy here.”

Theo sucked his tooth and flipped him off as he leant over the desk for the quill and a blank scroll.

_Harry,_

_The buyers are on their way to Soteria. Eris Iskandar and Albin Perry. You better get here if you want in._

_Theo._

He bit his lip in thought.

_P.S. I’ve been informed that Iskandar isn’t a vampire, but I’m not entirely sure about the validity of the claim. _

He licked his bitten lip and furrowed his brow. Theo suddenly realised he hadn’t eaten all day as his stomach rumbled.

“Have we still got that cheese here?” He asked distractedly, putting the quill to the parchment once again.

_P.P.S. I appreciate why you may not want to come given this afternoon, so I’m happy to ~~stop by later~~ catch you up with everything. _

“Yes,” Blaise replied, “nothing to eat it with though.”

_P.P.P.S. If you are coming, bring some cheese biscuits._

Before he could overthink and edit anymore, he rolled the note up and stood from the chair. He ran the tips of his fingers of Hecate’s feathers, revelling in their softness.

“Take this to Potter at Grimmauld Place,” he murmured, attaching the note to her leg with care. He mirrored Blaise’s earlier actions as Hecate hopped on to the arm he held out for her and he crossed the room to open the window. He felt the brush of her feathers against his cheek as she stretched her wings and took flight, gathering huge swathes of air on the downbeat as she pushed herself into the sky.

“Now what?” He asked as he closed the window and turned back to the desk.

“Now we get ready,” Blaise sighed as he stood, fastening the buttons of his brocade jacket. “And start praying that our guests don’t recognise the most famous wizard in the world.”

**_16:57 pm,_ ** **_10 th of September, 1999 - Soteria, Soho, London, UK_ **

****

Theo aligned his steps heel to toe, careful to walk the border of the dial as if he were walking a tight-rope. His nerves fritzed with nervous energy while he flipped his silver lighter back and forth across his knuckles. Blaise sat quietly behind him at the table, looking over a report the ‘yet-to-be-caught-serial-killer-accountant’ had handed him.

Iskandar and Perry were due to arrive at any moment.

_No sign of-_

He blew out a short, frustrated breath and tossed his lighter only to easily catch it with his other hand. He flicked the catch open and closed, focusing on the harsh **clunking click** that sounded deafening in their muted area.

The club was slowly starting to fill with the early evening punters who dressed in finery stylish enough for evening drinks, but not ostentatious enough to stay out till dawn.

“Any news about Draco?” Theo asked distractedly as he watched the staircase that led from the upper floors.

“Yes, I was with him,” Blaise responded casually.

“ _Blaise!”_ Theo exclaimed as he whirled around. “What the fuck?! When were you going to-” He huffed angrily, cutting himself off and looked toward the ceiling, his hands placed solidly on his hips. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. How is he? What happened?” He focused his attention back on Blaise, who watched him in mild amusement.

“Not nice when somebody springs something on you is it?” He sneered, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight of the lantern that cast him in an ominous glow.

“How long are you going to be in a snit about this?” Theo drawled back as he flopped down into the seat opposite, his one leg slung over the arm to angle his body in such a way that he still had a full purview of the staircase.

“Entirely depends on how this evening goes,” Blaise replied coolly. “If all goes well, then maybe I’ll stop when you actually fuck Potter. If it doesn’t, you best believe I am making a spectacle at your wedding.”

Theo sighed, “Blaise…”

“And any and all children and, or pets that you two have will be called some variation of my name.”

Theo blinked.

Blaise lifted a perfectly shaped brow.

“Whatever,” Theo grumbled, breaking their staring contest to resume watching the staircase. “Draco. What’s going on?”

“He’s out.”

“BLAISE!”

“Any and all children Theodore!”

“Fine!” Theo snapped dismissively. “How is he?”

“Not good. Narcissa had a merry few so I called Liz there. Draco’s gave the go-ahead for her to clean up at St Mungo’s when he arrived.”

 _“BLAISE!”_ Theo shouted in disbelief, his eyes wide as the mounting horror enveloped him.

“And all pets Theo!”

“ _Whatever!_ So ‘Cissa’s in Mungo’s – okay. That’s good, I guess. I feel sorry for Liz though,” he added as an afterthought before returning his focus. “Draco?”

Blaise looked at the table in consternation. “He’s uh…also not good Theo. He's fine!” He hurriedly amended. “He has all his fingers and toes and he’s free. It’s just… I’d brace yourself. He looks – I can’t fucking believe this.”

Theo jerked with surprise at the sudden change of tone. He followed Blaise’s eyes and peered around the back of the chair to see Harry ascending the dial steps. His hair was even more chaotic than when Theo had left him and the severe set of his features were made all the more alluringly foreboding in the half-light of the booth.

Theo settled back in his chair as Harry took the seat on his left.

“Potter,” Blaise said in clipped greeting.

“Zabini,” Harry replied.

“He’s fine?” Theo continued, unperturbed by the interruption.

“He’s fine.” Blaise concurred solidly.

Harry’s gaze bounced between them. “Who’s fine?”

“Draco - he’s been freed,” Theo supplied offhandedly. “Did you bring the cheese biscuits?” he asked, suddenly eager.

Harry’s green eyes pinned him with a bewildered look. “You actually wanted cheese biscuits? He’s been freed? What? But that makes no -”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why wouldn’t you what?”

“Want cheese biscuits?”

Harry glanced to Blaise who shrugged his shoulders aloofly. He turned back to Theo, his brows scrunched in confusion.

“Why do you want cheese biscuits? I thought we’re handing over the manuscript?”

“How else are you supposed to eat cheese?” Theo asked, offended.

Harry searched his face as his pink tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “With bread?”

Theo scoffed dramatically and crossed his arms across his body, while he rearranged his seating position so he could continue to watch the staircase around Harry’s chair.

Harry meanwhile, frowned deeper in confusion and turned his questioning gaze back to Blaise.

“What?” was all he asked helplessly, with a vague gesture in Theo’s direction.

“Potter, if you’re able to puzzle out the maze of Theodore’s mind, I’m sure we’d all be grateful,” he commented pleasantly.

“I may starve to death,” Theo whined, nudging Harry’s thigh with the foot that hung over the arm the chair, “and it’ll be your fault for not providing cheese biscuits.”

“You could just eat the cheese without the biscuits,” Harry grouched in return.

Blaise swore quietly on the other side of the table. “Can we get to-”

“ _Without_ the biscuits?! Were you raised in a barn?” Theo gasped, stricken.

“Oh for crying ou-”

“In a cupboard under the stairs actually,” Harry replied evenly.

Theo’s melodramatics faltered as he quirked his head at Harry.

“Well,” Blaise commented in a casual tone, “while I really would love to continue to sit here and watch this delightful display gentleman, we need to cut it short.” He stood from the chair and fastened the gilded golden buttons of his jacket. “They’re here. Disguise him _now_ please,” he said with a pointed look between Theo and Harry before making his way out of the booth.

Theo swung into action, lifting his long leg from over the arm to lean into Harry’s space, as he shucked his wand from his cuff. He ignored the flinch at the sudden intrusion as he tapped the circular wireframe glasses, thickening the frames and squaring the corners.

“A cupboard?” He questioned quietly as he ran his hand indulgently through Harry’s wild hair, adding length and stripes of grey that swooped down over his forehead, covering the notorious scar.

_Don’t think, just do. Savour for later._

He bit his lip as he ran the tip of his wand down the line of Harry’s jaw, coaxing the unshaven stubble longer and twisting it into a greying beard. As Theo continued to trail his wand down his neck, lengthening the now styled beard, his attention wavered as he watched Harry’s throat move around his swallow.

“Y-yes,” Harry gruffed. Theo blinked and pulled back sharply, ignoring the heat that flushed the back of his neck as he admired his work with a critical eye.

“Is this going to be enough? Won’t they recognise me?” Harry said.

“Na,” Theo replied, “the last thing they’d be expecting is for Harry Potter to be sat with us. Besides,” a smirk teased his lips, “you look like a nerdy-pirate,” he said, slipping his wand back up his sleeve, satisfied with his work.

“You look like a pirate who’s attended Mardi-Gras,” Harry quipped back, pushing a hand through his now luxuriously long hair. Theo clucked and swiped Harry’s hand away, fluffing the fringe to cover his forehead again.

“A dashing pirate,” he said with a wink as he settled back into his seat.

Harry looked at Theo over the brim of his thick frames. “Who - you or me?” He questioned seriously.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Theo replied, smirk still in place as he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He pulled one with a flourish and settled in between his teeth. He snapped the silver lighter open and lit the flame, only to look up and meet Harry’s eyes.

_Well…fuck_.

Theo’s actions stilled, trapped in the thrall of the green gaze.

The flame danced between them.

The dark, greying strands of the long, untameable hair that framed the wickedly, knowing eyes lent to the already dangerously, roguish air that Harry carried himself with. Theo swallowed, clearing his suddenly salivating mouth in a fruitless attempt to save the butt of the cigarette that dangled lamely from his teeth.

Movement over Harry’s shoulder caught Theo’s attention, and he hurriedly touched the tip of his cigarette to the flame before pocketing it and righting his posture.

“May I introduce you to my associates,” Blaise’s silken voice crooned as he rounded the table. “This is Theodore Nott,” he said with a grandiose gesture in Theo’s direction, “and this is his boyfriend, Edgar Rowle.”

Theo’s brain short-circuited as he stood to greet the new arrivals. He watched numbly as Harry stood beside him, a charming smile alighting his face as he shook the female guests proffered hand. Her male counterpart was too engrossed in telling some story to pause for introductions.

_Merlin…_

Theo automatically took the slender female hand that was offered to him, only absently noting the long, dark painted nails that curled around his own. He was torn between mortification and adamantly trying to quell the bud of hope that had bloomed in his chest at Harry’s ease.

_Maybe…_

Harry’s rumbling chuckle pulled him from his bitter reverie. Theo started, realising he hadn’t greeted the man who accompanied the woman with the impressive manicure, only to find that he already seated himself on Blaise’s right and was occupied in telling a seemingly, very dramatic story.

“You’ll have to excuse Theo,” Harry’s warm voice sounded from his left as his hand settled on the small of Theo’s back. “We’ve had quite the morning and I’m afraid he’s a little…” Theo couldn't see the face that accompanied the statement, but he looked up to see the woman watching them with a knowing smile.

Harry tapped his fingers three times where they rested.

Theo cleared his throat, suddenly flush with heat, and removed the smoking cigarette from his lips as he ducked his head to avoid the woman’s gaze. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Harry watching him with an amused tilt of his lips that didn’t match the worried strain around his eyes. Theo felt his own lips twitch in a hesitant smile and saw the tension around the glittering emeralds fade away.

Theo swallowed heavily and released the breath in his lungs before flashing a smile at the woman who had now taken the seat between Theo and Blaise.

“Apologies Miss Iskandar, I presume?” Theo said smoothly, reaching out behind him to tap Harry’s hip in return.

_I’m okay._

“Eris, pleaze,” the woman said as Theo and Harry took their seats.

Eris Iskander was a slender woman, whose ghostly skin was alarmingly in contrast to the straight, raven hair the fell to her hips and her big, black eyes that seemed impossible in the half-light of the booth. Her sharp cheekbones casted deep shadows, framing her long, straight nose and pale thin lips perfectly. She was enticing, wrapped in a silken black dress that hugged her narrow frame, completing the image of gothic royalty. Her counterpart was every bit her opposite, Theo noted. While Eris sat poised and still, with her smile caged in her fathomless eyes _(‘not a vampire’ - fuck you Blaise),_ Albin Perry was a sunny yellow blonde - tanned, loud, expressive and flashing his pearly-whites as he waved his hands in some feat that Theo assumed must have meant a dramatic explosion.

“-and then the cab driver asked for fifty bucks! Fifty! I was told British drivers were cheaper than the ones back home!”

“Yes well, a black cab is expensive at any distance. Let alone from Heathrow,” Blaise commented dryly as he made a signal toward the bar.

“You got in one of those flying death-traps?” Theo commented surprised.

Albin swung his expressive face to Theo and miraculously managed to brighten more. “Albin Perry,” he bellowed excitedly, holding a thick hand out over the table.

“Theodore Nott, pleasure,” Theo supplied, whilst holding back his grimace at his creaking bones that Albin seemed determined to crush. “My significantly better other, Edgar Rowle,” he said in an attempt to barter for his hand’s freedom.

“And to answer your question, yeah. Didn’t want to risk a getting a portkey. The MACUSA office in Austin is a stickler for customs. Great to meet you,” Albin drawled with a wide grin, capturing Harry’s hand. Theo took a drag of his cigarette and watched in amusement as Harry failed at hiding the discomfort of having his hand broken. 

Just then, Julien appeared at Harry’s side, balancing a silver tray that held a large bottle sequestered in a bucket of ice.

“I did zay zat ve should per’aps order a drivor,” Eris purred as her dark eyes intently watched Julien place elegant stem glasses around the table.

“You did, but then we’re in London! The cabs are famous! It would be a crime not too!” Albin replied as he settled back in his seat, his warm eyes smiling kindly up at Julien who had popped the cork of the bottle to pour their glasses, only to then step away once completed with a subtle nod to Blaise.

Just then, Theo felt a nudge against his shoe. He looked down to see Harry’s heavy boot leaning against his. He looked up to see Harry, who was watching him intently, make a subtle gesture to his nose, whilst pointedly looking at the smoking cigarette. Theo glanced at the curling blue smoke and cocked his brow in return at Harry, confused. In response, Harry rolled his eyes and scrunched his nose more exaggeratedly. Theo tilted his head, feeling his lips twitch into a smile at the endearing expression on brunette's strong features.

“’ow long ‘av you two been togezor?” Eris asked, her onyx eyes twinkling as she took a delicate sip from her glass.

“A couple of years now,” Harry said smoothly with a lopsided grin before he turned back to Theo. “Charm,” was all he said, pointedly looking at the cigarette again. It took Theo a moment to realise what Harry was referring to, before he started, scenting the smell of burning tobacco that perfumed the air.

“Shit, _cist aerem vizduh_ ,” Theo hissed wandlessly. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, turning to Eris.

He nudged Harry’s foot in gratitude.

“’Tis quite alright. ‘ow did you two meet?” Eris replied, pulling a silver case from a small black clutch. She clicked the lid open with precision and pulled a long, thin cigarette from within. She offered Theo a smirk as she lit it with a click of her fingers.

“We met at school,” Theo replied. He felt Harry nudge his foot. “He was a few years older than me when he caught my attention. Such a heroic and noble prefect he was,” he said with a sly grin. Eris tipped her head as she released a melodic laugh.

“Yes well, you were a little shit,” Harry quipped darkly, though a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “It was like this one couldn’t pass a single day without getting into some kind of trouble,” he said to Eris.

“Well, how else was I meant to get your attention?” Theo asked earnestly as he took another drag of his cigarette to the soundtrack of Eris’ chuckles.

“A million other ways Theo, like any other normal human being,” Harry replied pointedly.

Theo winked at Eris, a grin wide on his face as he played to the antics. “Oh come now, where’s the fun in that?” He scoffed, effecting his loftiest utterance.

“I swear, it took the end of the world for him to finally ask me out,” Harry tutted with a hard-done-by sigh.

“Well I had to be sure you had no other option _but_ to say yes,” Theo sniffed, as he reached for his glass.

“Oh, you two are delightvul!” Eris cooed, her black eyes dancing between them.

Harry’s low chuckle stirred something within Theo that made him swallow the bubbly liquid too harshly.

“What about you, is Albin…?” Harry asked while Theo tried to covertly release the gas that he had trapped.

“Oh ne, ne, ve are just vorking partnerz,” she purred, blue smoke curling from her pale lips. “Ne, ‘e iz merely zere to – shall ve zay – pass ze long zummer nightz, on occasion, but noz’ing more.”

Theo tipped his glass to her in acknowledgement and she returned his smirk in kind.

Harry chuckled ruefully beside him and nudged his foot once again.

“I don’t blame you,” he said, flicking an appreciative glance over at Albin who was still engaged in emphatic conversation with a taken-aback Blaise. “What is work for you two then?”

Theo spied Eris shift in her seat as she crossed her long legs. “Ve procure zingz, itemz, people ov interest, vor our organisation.”

_Hook…_

“And what is an interesting person to you?” Theo asked flirtatiously as he vanished his spent butt and settled further into his chair and spreading his legs an inch wider.

_Line…_

He heard Harry clear his throat.

Eris’ dark eyes travelled over him, taking him in as he had intended her to when he had offered himself on a platter.

“A person who iz curious enough to ask,” she purred, pursing her lips around the end of her cigarette.

_Sinker._

“Good benchmark,” Harry said, as Theo held Eris’ gaze a moment longer before reaching for his drink. “Is Austin home to you both?” Harry continued, whilst nudging Theo’s foot once again, appearing unaware of the moment.

“Ne, zankvully. It iz a very dreary city, we were only zere on buzinezz.”

“Aww come on, it wasn’t that bad!” Albin cut in suddenly. “She suffers in the heat,” he added to Harry, who nodded understandingly.

“It vaz not just ze heat, it vaz ze people!” Eris scoffed, vanishing her own cigarette. “Zey always vant to mix businezz viz pleazure, but zey hav’ no concept ov boundariez.”

“That’s just the southern charm rubbing against your cold European front, doll,” Albin drawled.

Eris laughed tunefully, her sharp teeth glinting in the firelight. Theo unconsciously gnashed his own teeth in vindication: _fucking knew it, fuck you, Blaise._

“I thought it was a very classy shindig personally,” Albin continued.

Eris sobered slightly. “Pleaze, it vaz gaudy. Vat vaz all zat vuss? Vhy all ze ztreamers and tinzel?”

“ _Tinsel?_ ” Blaise said horrified, his glass paused half-way to his lips.

“Exactly!” Eris concurred with a strident gesture.

“Because it was a celebration!” Albin turned beseechingly to Harry as if searching for an ally. “We’ve been working there for ages and finally we have one of our own heading the Texan MACUSA branch.”

“That does seem like something to celebrate,” Harry said sagely.

“Tinsel, darling,” Theo reminded him offhandedly.

Harry’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he posed in thought. “I see no issue,” he concluded after a moment.

“Thank you!” Albin exclaimed, slamming his broad hand on the table, as Eris, Blaise and Theo turned to Harry in various shades of disbelief.

“What? It’s a celebration! Tinsel and streamers, they’re all happy and fun! This guy uh…” he clicked his fingers as if recalling a lost word, “the Texan guy he-”

“Aldridge Alemán,” Albin supplied smugly.

“Mr Alemán deserves a happy celebration! And so do _you_ for the work you did, I imagine, to get him there!” Harry urged innocently. Theo couldn’t decide if he was appalled at the inclusion of tinsel in this defence or impressed – if his suspicions were correct – that Harry had managed to turn it into a weapon.

He _hoped_ his suspicions were correct.

“Thank you, Edgar! We did work hard! Especially considering that we’re also trying to keep the office in Berlin,” Albin shook his head. “They’ve got some righteous young blood over there whipping the votes in his favour at the moment.”

Theo watched in delighted amusement as Harry’s face morphed into one of concern as he made a noise of disapproval. “I’ll be honest, I’m not really politically versed,” he said demurely, “but I can appreciate when work is shit. I’m sure you’ll manage to come out on top,” he finished encouragingly.

“Oh, ve shall,” Eris said with a predatory gleam in her eyes, “zanks to you boyz.”

Theo started with a sinking feeling in his gut. “Us?” he repeated.

Eris’ smile turned sharp as settled her cool gaze on him. “But ov course! For ze acquisition? You hav’ been most invaluable.”

“Of course,” Theo repeated, a fixed, practised smile settling on his face.

“Shall we get to business then?” Blaise said, clapping his hands. “Theo?”

Theo sat up in his seat, careful to avoid meeting Harry’s eyes as his heart suddenly began to pound in his chest.

_Oh my - bad, bad vibes._

He reached into the inner pocket of the greatcoat he still wore and gently retrieved the manuscript. A hush fell over the table as Theo placed it reverently between them all, that was only broken a quiet whistle came from Albin.

“You actually did it,” he said, his voice soft for the first time since he had arrived.

“Of course zey did,” Eris said as she gently hooked the cover the manuscript under her nail to guide it open. Everyone was quiet as she examined the pages, her marble face pursed in concentration.

“Prelep je,” she whispered, her attention rapt with awe.

“We good to go?” Albin asked.

“Da,” she replied, a smile curling her thin lips as she refocused her dark eyes on Theo and Harry. “You hav’ done vell. Zank you.”

Theo’s nerves twisted as he returned her smile. He eyed her dark nails that clutched the delicate script and swallowed down the urge to tear it from her grasp. Every part of him screamed that this was a bad idea. That he shouldn’t release the Voynich into her care.

“You’re most welcome,” he said, tipping his head in a slight bow. He used the moment to peak at Harry over his shoulder. He noticed the tense line of his shoulders, the harsh furrow in his brow. Theo nudged Harry’s boot and lifted his own brows in silent urging.

“Anytime,” Harry begrudgingly bit out.

The force of which Theo stopped himself from rolling his eyes verged on pain.

He nudged Harry’s foot harder.

“Well in that case…” Albin reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled a long white wand that looked like it was made from ivory. “Expecto patronum,” he muttered and a pearlescent raven fluttered down to perch on the table.

“Celare,” Theo hissed immediately, casting a wandless disillusionment charm over the booth. He briefly met Harry’s eyes and shared an unspoken agreement.

Albin continued, unbothered.

“Marco, inform Gurnok to transfer the funds to Mr Zabini’s account please,” he ordered, dismissing the raven with a cold brush of his hand, his sunny disposition wavering as he turned his calculating eyes back to Blaise. “Marco’s gone ahead to Gringotts to confer with our accountant and prep the sale.”

A tense quiet fell over the table, all semblance of the previous light banter lost. Eris continued to quietly pour over the pages, her dark eyes entranced by the scripture. Theo and Blaise shared a significant look; this part in a deal was always a tense moment, reputations and time-spent balanced on the fine point of a smooth transaction. The slightest hitch could teeter the precarious balance. Theo noticed that Albin and Harry were leant towards each other, voices low in conversation.

“Zis iz quite magnifizent,” Eris purred, glancing over at Theo. “Did you look?”

Theo’s unease dug its claws into his spine.

“Yes,” he replied with a meagre nod, “I posed as a professor to gain access to it. Had to act the part you know.”

Eris flashed him a feral smile. “Zere are very few secrets left in zis vorld – zis iz one ov them.”

“If I may be so bold,” Theo said hesitantly as he leant towards her, “but I am dying to know: what do you plan to do with such a cryptic piece? It’s untranslatable.”

Theo’s heart thrummed wildly in his chest as he looked into the bottomless black of Eris’ cold eyes. Whatever she found as she observed him in turn, seemed to assuage whatever reservations she held. She leant in, the sharp edge of her long nails winking in the firelight as they curled protectively around the script.

“Vat if I told you, zat ve could read it?” She whispered, her pale lips stretching around her sharp teeth.

Theo swallowed, his eyes dancing between hers and the Voynich. “I would ask what it says,” he replied lowly.

“It iz a recipe,” Eris purred, her cold, sweetened breath brushing over his cheeks.

Theo leant closer still. “For what?”

“Zis vorld zat ve live in, it iz ordered into many pockets, da? Ze Nemagičan, zey ‘ave zeir religions, zeir tribes. Us? Ve ‘ave our tribes, our codes and practices. Ze creatures? Zey ‘ave zeir lands, zeir rituals. Everyzing iz neat. It iz ordered. It iz _trapped._ ” Eris lifted her hand from the script to form an upturned fist on the table. “Ve ‘old knowledge captive because it fits into our little pocket ov ze vorld and ve dizregard any knowledge from any ozer tribe or code, because it does not fit our order. Ve zen ‘ave leaders ov ze tribes – pureblood, mudblood, creature blood. Zey zink zey ‘ave power, but zey do not.” She let out a dark laugh and gestured to her fist. “Zey are narrow-minded in zeir attempts to rule ze vorld, in zeir attempts to make ze vorld bend its knees to fit into zeir perfect ideal. Zese false leaders amongst men,” she banged her fist against the table once again. “Zey zink zey can lord zeir tribe over another because zey zink it is more valuable. Ze Dark Lord for example. He disregarded knowledge from every tribe but hiz own. He tried to raise one tribe above anozer. Zis iz a tale az old az time. It iz in our nature. But zis…” She stroked the aged page lovingly with her free hand. “Zis iz ze recipe to ze Enlightened.”

“The Enlightened?” Theo said quietly, his voice cracking on the syllables.

Eris stroked the cover again and knocked her still clenched fist against the table as her pale lips twisted into a maniacal smile under her dead eyes.

“Knowledge iz power and ‘aving ze key to unlocking zecrets iz ze path to ruling knowledge. Zis book, it iz a recipe for the key zat vill unlock ze zecrets zat shall break down ze ridiculous barriers zat are in place. Zese tribes, zese orchestrated norms zat divide society. It iz an old machine - corrupt viz rust and ichor zat keep zis knowledge captive. Zis book holds ze recipe to freeing it.”

Eris loosened her tight fist like a deadly blooming flower. The hairs on Theo’s neck stood on end as his throat went dry.

_What have I done…_

“And ve nearly ‘ave all ze pieces ve need. Az ov tonight, ve shall ‘ave ze third piece and by tomorrow morning, ve shall ‘ave ze final piece. By next veek, it shall be a new red dawn.” She lifted her hand from the table to run a pointed nail under his jaw. “And you, my clever curious zoul, are zuch an interesting person.”

Theo released a shaky breath as she freed him to lean back in her seat.

_Bad idea, don’t do it, you’re not the hero, bad ide-_

“I am an interested person,” Theo said as he subtly wiped a clammy palm against his trouser leg.

_Why… why did you just say that?_

A victoriously toothy grin spread across Eris’ face. “Da, I zink you just might be,” she said invitingly as the hypnotic abyss of her eyes bore into Theo’s.

“Transfer’s complete.”

Theo started at the sudden intrusion of the Albin’s booming American voice; he physically had to pull himself back into awareness of the booth around him, after having been so enticed into Eris’ gravity.

“Excellent,” Blaise said, clapping his hands together, a cool business smile in place. Theo blinked, clearing the haze from his mind as he scrutinised the table. Harry and Blaise wore similar looks of forced cordiality as Albin grasped their hands in turn to shake.

“Shall we celebrate? Or do you have business to attend?” Blaise enquired, the picture of decorum. Theo settled in his seat, careful to keep his gaze still to appear every bit the aristocratic aloofness that Blaise was projecting.

Whatever had happened on their side of the table in the span of the five minutes that Theo had been engaged had ruffled their feathers, and in true upper society fashion, Blaise was asking them to leave.

Albin sunny grin grew wider. “I think we could celeb-”

“Ve should be going,” Eris interrupted, and the ice of her smile was a jarring opposition to her mania moments before. “I vould rather not linger viz zis book in ze open.”

“Of course,” Blaise pleasantly cut in, standing from his chair, every part the host.

Theo stood also, minding the manners that had been beaten into him all those years ago. He smiled and nodded in the right places at Albin’s effused banal words, while his mind buzzed and his blood hummed. He felt distinctly wrong-footed as if he had missed the last step. He flinched slightly at an unexpected pressure on his arm and he looked over to see Harry beside him. He gently squeezed Theo’s arm, a soft smile on his lips while his green eyes looked up with worry.

_Indulge Hemlock, you’ve just offered yourself as a lamb to the slaughter after all._

Theo pulled his arm free from Harry’s grasp and swung it over his shoulders, pulling him close. He felt Harry stiffen momentarily before relaxing and leaning into the embrace.

“Alright?” he murmured. Theo dipped his chin and huffed a breath.

“Not now,” he said just as Eris approached them.

“It ‘az been a pleasure to meet you both,” she said, holding out her thin hand.

“And you,” Harry returned, clasping her hand with a tight smile.

“I am sure zis vill not be ze last ve zee of eachozer,” she said, turning her focus to Theo, who barely restrained his shiver of revulsion as he shook grasped her hand. “In fact, I am sure ve shall zee eachozer zoon. You show great promise for Enlightenment.”

Theo’s returning smile was loose and free, the picture of ease as his skin crawled and his heart hammered against his ribs for freedom.

“Of course, I very much look forward to continuing our conversation,” he said.

Moments later, Blaise was ushering them from the booth, again trapped in another dramatic Albin Anecdote, leaving Theo and Harry casually embraced. As Theo watched their striking silhouettes disappear up the staircase, he felt his weight lean more heavily against Harry, as his chest constricted tighter and tighter.

“What happened?” Harry asked seriously as he gently pulled Theo back towards the chairs.

Theo bounced as he landed in his previous seat, all too aware of the cool air that pressed against his clammy skin.

“ _Theo_!” Harry barked, snapping his fingers in front of his face. Theo’s attention snapped to Harry’s eyes – so green, so full of life, so vastly different from the black holes.

“What did you talk about?” Harry said, his tone gentler now that Theo was focused, but the set of his hardened features belayed the softness of his words.

“She can read the book,” Theo whispered his breath stuttering on the intake.

Harry’s brow shot up. “Did she say what it was?”

Theo looked down at his trembling fingers that were picking inanely at the hardened callouses, feeling the clutches of panic grip him tighter. He reached into his pocket to withdraw his box of cigarettes, just to occupy his fidgeting digits.

“A recipe,” he said as he carefully pulled a cigarette from within. Had Theo been thinking straight, he would have found it comical the degree to which Harry’s head tilted in confusion.

“A recipe? For what?”

Theo flicked his glance to Harry before resuming his task.

“A red dawn,” he replied absently while he clicked his fingers in growing desperation as he failed to cast the cantrip.

Harry stopped his frantic movements and gently covered Theo’s hand with his own. He clicked the fingers of his free hand and offered the flame to Theo.

“A red sky in the morning, a spirits warning,” the dark blonde said as blue smoke curled around his lips. “It was something my mother used to say.”

“What does it mean?” Harry said, his brow furrowed as he searched Theo’s face.

Theo took a long drag of his cigarette and relished in the burn of his lungs that overwhelmed the urgent need to scream.

“It means,” he said, his voice hoarse, “that we just handed her the recipe for war.”

**_15:47 pm, 11 th of September, 1999 – 12 Grimmauld Place, Claremont Square, Islington, London, UK. _**

****

_Mione,_

_I miss you. We need to do better because this is ridiculous. We live together. I know you’re upstairs as I write this but I don’t want to disturb because you need to rest, but with the way this week’s gone, I also am not hundred per cent certain you’ll be here when I get back. So here’s my report on the Voynich._

_We stole it - I am officially a criminal…so there’s that._

_I got fired… I’m only 20% sure it’s not because I am a criminal but we shall see. I’m off to the DMLE now to clear out my desk. I shall let you know when I get back. If I’m being honest, I think this has something to do with Robards and that farm._

_The deal was made: Albin Perry – American, about 6’2, blonde. Eris Iskandar – Serbian? Eastern European, 5’9, black hair, possible vampire (depending on who you ask – Theo is adamant she is, Zabini is adamant she isn’t)._

_P.O.I - 1 - Iskandar and Perry had just come from Austin, Texas after getting one of “their own” elected - Aldridge Alemán - into the MACUSA office there. They were also having trouble with keeping one of their own in office in Berlin (German Ministry? Is there an election or power grab there at the minute?)_

_P.O.I – 2 – Theo was freaked after they left. He said Iskandar said she could read the Voynich. She said it was a recipe for a “red dawn”. Theo guessed war. He said that Iskandar said that they had already two pieces, that by last night they would have the third, and by this morning they would have the fourth. _

_P.O.I – 3 – Albin is a chatty guy, was telling me about all the things that he and she had been sent to “procure”. These people are bad news. Even if the war stuff is just the talk of a fanatic, they’re in trafficking for definite. _

_P.O.I – 4 – They’re staying in London. Albin mentioned that headquarters are here._

_P.O.I – 5 – Theo offered himself as bait. I can’t –_

Harry blew out a short breath of frustration and dropped the pen, feeling the familiar and yet alien swell of anger. He couldn’t understand why Theo had done that, hearing what Iskandar had been saying, knowing that she was bad news. And yet, he knew all too well why Theo had done it.

He would have done the same, had he had the chance.

This knowledge did nothing to mitigate the burning fury he felt. After his conversation with Albin, he didn’t want anyone near them – let alone Theo throwing himself into the middle of them.

Harry was frightened.

Frightened for a multitude of reasons.

He was frightened that the more he tried to make sense of the world around him, the messier it got.

He was frightened that the tighter he held on to some semblance of reality, the quicker it slipped between his fingers.

He was frightened that his life had changed so rapidly in just three days, and it showed no sign of calming soon.

He was frightened that he was frightened for a man that until just three days ago, he had believed with unequivocal certainty, was a bad, evil, immoral – who had no possibility for redemption in this life or the next.

He was frightened of the way his eyes lingered on the sharp cheekbones and the tumbling waves of dirty blonde, the way the blue eyes watched through a haze of quiescent tendrils of smoke.

He was frightened that for the first time in two years, he was awake.

In his tumultuous frustration, he drummed his fingers in quick succession against the island top, before he viciously picked up the pen and resumed.

_I have no idea why but he did that and now we’re stuck with that option so here we are. So yes, Theo’s being recruited, we think, by Iskandar. She said that he showed great promise for Enlightenment. Theo said it was something to do with order and knowledge._

_Anyway, I can tell you the full story later, but seriously, if this is real, what the fuck are we going to do? I’m literally on my way to find out why I’ve been fired, so it’s not like I can throw around the Auror card anymore._

_Plus, we’ve still got a missing Selkie._

_I could really use your help with this Mione._

_Love. x_

_p.s. eat something._

Harry folded the note and scrawled Hermione’s name on the parchment before leaning it against the empty fruit bowl in the middle of the kitchen table. He picked up a second piece and the pen once more:

_I’m leaving now._

He let out a long piercing whistle as he rolled the parchment, sealing it with a twist of his wand. As he stood, he heard the **whoomph** of great wings beating before a sharp **rap** sounded against the kitchen window. Harry flicked his wand over his shoulder, releasing the latch as he continued to gather up his writing supplies. Felwyn, too big to fly through the open window, daintily stepped through onto the windowsill and hopped down onto the counter; his large claws clacking noisily against the granite surface as he did. He ruffled his soaked grey feathers and eyed the scroll that Harry held in his hand as he approached with distaste.

“What? Not in the mood today?” Harry chided, running a finger over the wet feathers of Felwyn’s wing. He glanced out the window to see the heavy rain that poured from the stormy sky.

“I see the issue,” Harry muttered, turning back to the Great Grey owl. “If I give you a vole will you take this to Theodore Nott?”

Felwyn’s huge amber eyes stared at him steadily before slowly blinking his assent - one at a time. He shifted his tall frame to hold out his leg and Harry rushed to securely attach the scroll before the giant bird could change its mind. He muttered a wandless ‘impervious’ as he spun towards the cold stores; he summoned a bag from the recesses and caught it casually with one hand. He unfastened the laces and grit his teeth against the revulsion that threatened to rise as he reached in for a vole. He avoided looking at the lifeless, small animal that lay limply in his palm as he freed his hand from the bag. He tossed it behind him and fastened the strings of the bag once more to the soundtrack of small bones being crunched in delight. By the time he returned his attention to Felwyn, there was no evidence of there ever having been a tiny mammal.

“All set?” Harry asked quietly, brushing his fingers over the downy feathers. Felwyn hooted softly and spread his massive wings in what Harry assumed to be a positive gesture before he folded them and hopped back towards to the windowsill. He paused on the window-ledge and appeared to look at the dark sky with trepidation before giving another soft hoot and launching himself into the torrential downpour.

Harry stood listening to the harsh slap on the rain pelt against the ground outside.

 _It’s funny how fast things change,_ he mused as he thought about the note that Felwyn carried. A week ago, he would have blindly followed Robard’s orders to arrest Nott - _Theo_.

Though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he knew he’d blindly trust Theo to cover his back while he went against Robards. Harry had had to all but demand Theo stay home instead of accompanying him like the dark blonde had been adamant about doing.

And then there was the problem that was Theo. The problem that Harry had been obstinately trying to avoid thinking about, lest it distract him from the mounting nightmares that appeared to be lurking behind every corner he had turned recently.

But Merlin knew that that “ _problem_ ” was perplexingly seductive in its distraction.

And once again acknowledging that that thought existed, in of itself, felt like someone had lit a fire within him whilst dowsing him in a bucket of ice.

Harry huffed a dark laugh and scrapped a hand over his stubble and up to his scalp, roughly yanking the hair taut in frustration.

_Come on then._

He dropped his arm heavily in defeat as he reached behind him and haphazardly pulled on his Pea coat, popping the thick collar as he crossed the living room. He reached into the pot on the mantle and dashed the fine power into the grate.

“The Ministry,” he growled, standing in clipped formation as the green flames licked his tense body.

Moments later, Harry’s heavy buckled boots stepped out onto the glossy floors of the Ministry Atrium. He buried his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and kept his head low as he joined the tide of foot-traffic that led from the floo entrances. His eyes darted back and forth, skimming the blank faces of the people around him; he looked for any twitch, any tell-tale sign of forced calm. After Theo had reiterated the conversation he had had with Iskandar, Blaise and Harry’s conversation with Perry had taken on a whole new level of foreboding. The American had relaxed and had done what any jet-lagged young up-start businessman does when he’s trying to impress – he’d talked. He had spoken of how it was his job to recruit and place the right people in the right places.

_“Which is why this current Ministry’s overhaul is simultaneously a worryingly stressful, kismet undertaking; it’s been difficult to keep the people we already had in there but it’s also opened up a lot of opportunities to get more of ours in.”_

Harry skirted around the newly refurbished fountain that twinkled ethereally under the harsh lights of the towering room, and ducked into the first elevator he could. His shoulders relaxed slightly as he sequestered himself into the back corner of the booth. He watched through his lashes at the grey suits that boarded after him, pressing him deeper into the safety of his corner.

As the elevator set off at break-neck speeds, whizzing around impossible corners and stomach-turning drops, Harry let out a long and steading breath to steel himself. He was feeling a feeling that was reminiscent of key moments in his life thus far: the first had been the walk from the Great Hall with McGonagall, and then the subsequent walk from the tent to the stadium where he had known that with every step, he came closer to the Hungarian Horntail; the second, had been the walk into the forest after the battle, where he had gone with the knowledge that he had to die. It was an indescribable feeling. While the walk to the dragon enclosure had been fuelled by dissociative, deafening panic, the walk to Voldemort had been a numbing, blissful surrender to the outcome.

The feeling that Harry felt as he rode the chaotic elevator, fell somewhere between the two. He knew he wasn’t about to face a dragon nor was he about to face Voldemort…but he didn’t know what he was about to walk in to. The DMLE had done their level best to ensure that he had stayed on the fringes on the team, so it wasn’t like he felt like he would have allies when he got in there. He knew there was an undercurrent of machinations and his instinct was telling him it had something to do with that _damn_ farm. The way that Robards had shut down the investigation before it had had a chance to even take form.

It was illogical.

It made no sense.

It wasn’t thought out, nor had it been planned.

It was a desperate move – Harry had stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have that day.

_But then why did Robards send me in the first place?_

While the whole inevitable confrontation with Robards was a certainty, the context and magnitude of its inevitable conclusion – that was an unknown. He didn’t know if this whole situation simply stemmed from Robards not liking him, or if his suspicions were true, and there was in fact, a higher ulterior motive.

The elevator bounced as it landed at the entrance of the second floor; the doors groaned as they opened, revealing the waning clinical light of the DMLE office beyond. With one final nod to himself, he squared his shoulders and pushed off from the corner, slipping through the crowded elevator and into the foyer. He rolled his neck as the doors closed behind him, selfishly taking the extra seconds to centre himself.

_Once more…_

Harry shoved his hands deep into his pockets once more, curling his right around his wand that lay hidden within. He set a steady pace as began to make his way into the office proper. Somehow, the place had managed to become more chaotic than when he had left it. Aurors ran the length of the room, brandishing reports or notes, harried, stern expressions setting their exhausted features. He could hear a commotion coming from the interrogation rooms as he saw six Aurors closest to the door set off at a sprint, drawing the wands. He picked his way to his cubicle and paused at the entrance, looking around the claustrophobic space. Somebody had cleared the carpet of paperwork that he had abandoned and had left it, piled haphazardly on the desk.

A couple more Aurors sprinted past him, headed in the direction of the interrogation room. Harry stepping into the cubicle to get out of their way. With one last concerned glance towards the site in question, he turned back to his desk. He hadn’t brought many personal items in, just a good writing quill, a few tidbits and knick-knacks. He crossed the small space and set about gathering those items, opening and closing drawers randomly, just to be sure there he hadn’t forgotten anything. He pulled open the draw to the top right and froze at the sight of the battered black file that lay within. Of all the nights he had spent, hypothesising about Theo’s criminal activities, of all the conversations he had heard the Aurors around the office have because they couldn’t quite pin a crime on him, but _‘they just knew it was him’_ and _‘it was only a matter of time before they got him.’_

Harry slammed the drawer shut and gulped, his chest suddenly heaving.

_It’s illegal…_

_But I am a criminal now - well technically that was Theo, I was just along for the ride._

It struck him, as he eyed the drawer as if it were a ticking bomb, that he finally had all the certainty and evidence he needed to arrest Theo. _And wouldn’t that be a victory? After all these months of everyone whining, and then I just bring him in… they 'd give me my job back…_

A burst of furious shouts came from the office beyond his cubicle, startling Harry from his reverie. He stuck his head around the entrance to see a fight had broken out by the interrogation rooms. He watched as more scarlet robes Aurors sprinted across the room to help.

As if to a siren’s call, Harry looked over his shoulder at the desk drawer.

He bit his lip.

“You so owe me,” he growled as he stalked across the cubicle, pulling out his wand as he yanked open the drawer.

“Reducio,” he whispered, pointing his wand at the file. He quickly scooped it up and had just put it and his wand back in his pocket when –

“Kid.”

Harry froze, his heart pounding in his throat as the shrunken file burned in his pocket. _Impeccable timing Old Man._ He looked over his shoulder to see Robards leaning against the entrance to his cubicle. _How long have you been stood there?_

“Robards,” he said curtly, before turning back to the desk to shut the drawer and gather the small pile of trinkets he had accumulated on the desk in his searching. He heard Robards sigh behind him. Harry panicked as he pocketed his quill, he wasn’t ready for their conversation yet; he was sure his guilt was all over his face.

“Busy day in the office today,” he said, his voice a little too bright.

Robards chuffed a bitter sounding laugh. “You have no idea.”

“No,” Harry replied, squaring his shoulders and welcoming the wave of calm that came over him suddenly. “I don’t,” he finished. He turned to face the older man and leant against the now cleared desk, his arms folded across his chest.

Harry assessed the man who he had once considered somewhat of a mentor during his training. The perpetual shadows that plagued the old man’s eyes were deeper, so dark purple that they looked like bruises.

“Look-”

“Why?” Harry interrupted, his voice sharp like cut glass. Robards eyed him as he scratched at the side of his beard.

“It’s nothing personal Potte-”

“Don’t,” Harry cut in again.

Robards started and lifted a wispy grey brow while his eyes narrowed their gaze.

“Don’t what, Kid?”

“Don’t lie to me,” Harry said with the confidence his calmness afforded him.

A pregnant pause fell between them as they stared at each other in a stand-off.

“This is why,” Robards said finally, the exhaustion that was prominently featured on his face, bled into his voice. “You have a reputation you know, Kid.”

Harry barked a laugh. “You know, I never noticed,” he drawled. 

“Don’t be obnoxious,” Robards barked, his face darkening as he straightened his stance, his awkward demeanour souring into something aggressive. “As well as your fame, you have a reputation for relentlessly sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he all but spat through gritted teeth, as he took a threatening step forward. “It’s why you would have made an excellent Auror,” he sniped, laughing bitterly.

Harry reared and uncrossed his arms to gesture accusingly. “Then why the fuck, have you kept me chained to a desk all this time?”

“Because I didn’t want you to be an excellent Auror, kid!”

“Oh, I se-”

“I wanted to keep you _alive_!”

Harry searched the older man’s eyes, as he choked on the righteous fury stuck in his throat.

“Who was at the farm?” he croaked. He watched as Robards's eyes fluttered closed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I apologise for that.”

“For what?” Harry replied, thrown by the randomness of the response.

“I was sure it really was just a noise complaint,” Robards said, refocusing his gaze back on Harry’s. “Had I known, you wouldn’t have gone.”

Harry's tongue flicked out to wet his lip as he felt the familiar feel of the hunt rear its head once more.

“Who was at the farm Gawain?”

“Not who,” Robards said lowly, “what. It was a Kelpie.”

Harry blinked.

He recalled the acrid stench of fear and the amount of blood that had covered the ground of the stable.

“Why murder a Kelpie?” Was all Harry could ask.

Robards sighed as rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “I can’t tell you that Kid, but it wasn’t a murder.”

“What, just because it’s a K-”

“No, because it’s not dead!” Robards snapped.

_But then why all the fuss?_

“What are you in Gawain?” Harry said, his voice softer than it had been throughout the entire conversation. “Let me help yo-”

“No, absolutely not,’ Robards said briskly. “If I wanted your help Kid, I would’ve let you loose a long time ago. Stay out of this please, it won’t be much longer and then all of this will be a thing of the past.”

_“It’s been difficult to keep the people we already had in there but it’s also opened up a lot of opportunities to get more of ours in.”_ Harry felt horror slide down his spine as Albin Perry’s voice rang his head.

_Surely not…_

Harry cleared his throat as he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to another. “Do you the names Iskandar and Perry?”

He saw the flicker of recognition in the older man’s eyes as Robards face twisted into a mangled display of confusion and shock, all the while, trying to maintain composure.

They looked at one another, and Harry felt a sudden swooping sensation of unease as he realised that the ground between them had become a vast expanse of No-Man’s Land. He had had his suspicions that Robards wasn’t all that he was thought to be, but he never had actually believed that they would end up on opposite sides.

“Damn fine Auror,” Robards said, a sad smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Which is why you fired me…” It wasn’t a question anymore.

Robards nodded his head. “It’s for the best Kid, truly.”

“Because you knew I’d go against you,” Harry said, his voice dead as he looked at the man before him in a new light.

“I’m letting you walk out of here a free man Potter. Go and live your life.”

“Or what?” Harry said, meeting Robards eyes with his own level gaze.

“Well I heard Azkaban has a few rooms spare,” Robards replied nonchalantly as he leant into Harry space. “Take the freedom I have given you Kid. This isn’t your fight.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply with the righteous anger that had reignited in his chest when a throat cleared in the cubicle entrance. He looked over Robards’ shoulder to see a tall man with shaggy brown hair, dressed in wrapped black robes of soft leather and silk leaning against the side of the entrance.

“Everything okay Mr Potter?” The man said in a broad Yorkshire accent. Harry was taken aback. He was certain he didn’t know the strange man and so, he wasn’t entirely sure why he was asking after his well-being.

“Everything’s fine here,” Robards growled as he spun to face the newcomer. “What do you want?”

The man gave Robards a withering look. “Just to tell you I’m wrapped up back there. Your guys have the rest of them under control and they’ve been informed to keep me apprised if any of them start talking.”

Robards seemed to swell as he puffed his chest in indignation. “There is a chain of command here, you can’t just demand that information.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” The newcomer drawled. “Besides, this is my taskforce. If you’ve got an issue, take it up with Willows. I’m sure he’d love that.” The newcomer returned his focus to Harry, “did I hear you’re on your way out?”

Harry watched as Robards mouth opened and closed noiselessly as his sallow cheeks bloomed reddened blotches. He noted that No-Man’s Land had grown between them as Robards had turned to face a new apparent opposing enemy.

_Who is now my friend._

“Yes, lead the way,” Harry said, stepping around a silently blustering Robards. The newcomer stepped back into the hall to make room for Harry in the narrow entrance, who then paused to look back at his once-mentor.

“You’re right, I would have been a damn fine Auror to have on your side,” he said as he pocketed his hands, curling his fingers protectively around the miniature file. “Where you’re wrong is that I _am_ a fucking brilliant Auror, I’m just not on your side. Good day.” And with that, he spun on his heel and left his former boss, spluttering is the sad cubicle as he made his way toward the elevator banks, the mystery newcomer in tow.

They entered the first available elevator that was thankfully empty and stood, shoulder to shoulder as the menacing contraption spurred to life. Harry’s head was so full of his thoughts, replaying Robards’ confession, that it took him a moment to realise that his new companion was quietly chuckling beside him.

“What’s funny?” Harry asked, eyeing him curiously.

The newcomer turned towards him, his eyes twinkling with humour, “I was just wondering if there was a class when you guys were at Hogwarts, that specialised in dramatic entrances and exits. You’re both the same!”

Harry felt a heat rise on the back of his neck as he smiled sheepishly at the strange man. He was about to laugh it off when he processed the words that had been said.

“Wait, both? Who else rivals my dramatics?” He asked amiably, but nonetheless curious.

“Hermione,” the stranger responded. “I think with her though, it’s the hair,” he added as an afterthought, holding his hands on either side of his head to mimic Hermione’s mane.

“You know ‘Mione?”

The stranger nodded, “we work together.”

“Oh,” Harry said surprised, warming further to the man. “You’re a researcher too?”

The man nodded as a wry grin spread across his face. “Taliesin Monaghan,” he said, holding out his hand. Harry shook it, just as the doors of the elevator opened to reveal the main atrium.

“It’s good to meet you,” Harry said with a smile as he walked out of the elevator when something else occurred to him. “You’re heading a task force in the DMLE?” he asked in surprise. The roguish grin on Taliesin’s face widened.

“Sure am,” he said. “Where you heading?” He gestured vaguely between the apparition point and the floo network.

“Floo,” Harry replied. “Thank you, by the way,” he said as they set off towards the fireplaces.

“What for?”

“Your interruption,” Harry replied.

Taliesin made a noise in the back of his throat as his brow furrowed. “Well Robards is a wanker so…” He said with a helpless shrug that made Harry chuckle.

“You have no idea,” he agreed.

“Oh?” Taliesin said, his grin still in place as surprise coloured his eyes.

“Next time,” Harry said waving him off as he stepped up to a fireplace. He saw Taliesin do the same to the one next to him.

“Very well,” he said with a nod. “I look forward to it. Now go on, get out of here before they change their minds.”

Harry laughed at the conspiratorial look on Taliesin’s face and stepped into the grate.

As the green flames rose to greet him, he could have sworn he heard his mysterious new friend announce ‘Malfoy Manor’ in his gruff, yawning Yorkshire voice.

**_18:38pm, 11 th of September, 1999 – 12 Grimmauld Place, Claremont Square, Islington, London, UK._ **

****

As Harry has suspected, Hermione wasn’t home by the time he had landed on the hearth of Grimmauld Place. He had been greeted with a particularly rankled orange hellion, who had done his level best to try and trip Harry as soon as he’d come through the flames.

After he had fed the wicked hell beast, he had sat down to compose a letter to Theo to explain what had happened with Robards.

This had not gone well.

Two hours later, all that Harry had managed to achieve was a rather impressive mountain of scrunched-up parchment. He had just decided that he would make another pot of tea when he heard a **rap** at the living room window. He stood and opened it – much to the ginger furball who had taken residence on the window-seat’s dismay – allowing in a tawny, bedraggled barn owl. Harry had hushed the scattered bird while casting a drying charm and retrieving his stash of treats.

“You can hide out in the attic with the other birds until the storm passes if you like?” He said as he untied the scroll that was attached to the owl’s leg. With a soft hoot and a grateful look, the now rotund ball of feathers took flight and disappeared up the stairs. Harry took a seat and unravelled the scroll:

_H,_

_I need yours and Mione’s help. I’ve written to her as well. I’m basically starting these letters the same, hoping that whoever gets it first, grabs the other and hauls ass up here. I’m in Scotland, Loch Ness. I don’t know how to explain this, but it’s like a bad day just went from bad, to worse, to completely fucked in about 5 minutes. Anyway, I’ve got a full-blown war between yetis (!!!) and centaurs. All because the head Yeti – Kunchen – has gone missing and some Divination so wonky that Trelawney would be proud. Running theory is that he’s been taken but by who? Nobody fucking knows. Yeti think it was the centaurs, but we were watching, there was no way they could’ve been that sneaky. I’ve got a task-force up here already because the carnage of the battlefield is threatening to turn the whole of Scotland into a bloody mess. The Naga in the Loch are two minutes away from starting a full-scale revolution. But I need help to find Kunchen before things go from fucked to –_

_what’s more fucked than fucked?_

_Get back to me asap._

_R._ _x_

_p.s. The floo address is open: The Craigdarroch Inn, Loch Ness_

The creeping unease that Harry had grown uncomfortably familiar with, once again reared its ugly head. Theo had repeated what Eris had said - that they would have a third piece by last night, their fourth today.

_What are the chances this is a coincidence?_

Considering how his week had gone thus far, he scrambled for extra pieces of parchment. The first letter was penned to Hermione, telling her where he was headed in case she hadn’t received Ron’s letter and the floo address. The second to Theo, briefly noting the points of interest from Robards conversation and explaining that he was following a hunch in Scotland. He folded Hermione’s and placed it with the first in the fruit bowl. He wrapped Theo’s letter around Ron’s and made his way up the stairs to send them off before he packed a bag for Scotland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOH! How are we? 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts and theories, kudos is love and reviews let me know you're there. 
> 
> If you'd like to say hello or ask questions that pop into your head at random hours, here's my tumblr - https://thusatlas.tumblr.com/ I've posted a masterlist of aesthetics, casting and set designs, as well as other trinkets of amusement.
> 
> Till next time!


	14. Esse Quam Videri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi. It's been a hot minute. Firstly, welcome to all the new readers! Secondly, Happy Holidays everyone! I hope you're all keeping safe with loved ones this holiday season, and that you celebrate the end to the dreadful year with love and cheer! 
> 
> Thirdly, if you are not aware, the beautiful, wonderful Annavek94 has created a magnificent piece of Veela Draco that is now housed in Chapter 7 and the piece in this Chapter. Or alternatively, you can see here: https://www.instagram.com/annavek94.art/
> 
> Fourthly, I'd like you to imagine me literally throwing this chapter at the internet and running away. Visualise it. It's happening. I know I say this often but NERVOUS! Sweet baby Jesus nervous! 
> 
> TRIGGERS - Panic attacks and anxiety/depictions of violence and murder. I don't think there's anything else, but usual rules apply my doves, if I've missed something, let me know and I shall amend. 
> 
> And finally, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Without further adieu, for the love of all that is holy, I hope you enjoy this.

**_Out of the night that covers me,_ **

**_Black as the Pit from pole to pole,_ **

**_I thank whatever gods may be_ **

**_For my unconquerable soul._ **

****

**_In the fell clutch of circumstance_ **

**_I have not winced nor cried aloud._ **

**_Under the bludgeonings of chance_ **

**_My head is bloody, but unbowed._ **

****

**_Beyond this place of wrath and tears_ **

**_Looms but the Horror of the shade,_ **

**_And yet the menace of the years_ **

**_Finds, and shall find, me unafraid._ **

****

**_It matters not how strait the gate,_ **

**_How charged with punishments the scroll._ **

**_I am the master of my fate:_ **

**_I am the captain of my soul._ **

****

_William Ernest Henley - Invictus_

** Chapter 14 – Esse Quam Videri **

* * *

* * *

**_17:47pm, 11 th of September, 1999 – Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, UK_ **

****

There was a hum.

The type of hum that filled one’s ears with a strange buzzing, that remained hidden from all those who looked for it, no matter how hard they tried.

It could only be described as white noise that pulsed with a steady beat, hidden in the corner of the eye.

Like the sound of approaching marching drums of war, hidden by the horizon.

“Unspeakable Granger?”

Hermione blinked her vision back into focus. The rich hues of the portrait frame that held an empty throne hung before her.

“Unspea-”

“Have you found them?” she intoned, her eyes retracing the brushstrokes of the abandoned canvas. She felt the newcomer tense.

Usually, she had patience.

Usually, she would wait for fresh-faced, cherubic Acolytes to gather themselves as they stumbled over their sentences because they were too full of nerves to breath between words – after all, it wasn’t long ago that she was one herself.

“N-not yet,” the young boy stuttered, “we’ve got a team trawling the library now, but it’s uh, it’s quite bi-”

“Then what do you want?”

The canvas really was a display of exquisite artistry. The oil paint was layered with such intricate detailing, with touches and textures so small, that even without the resident of the frame the throne was enrapturing.

“Unspeakable Monaghan asked for you.”

Hermione released her breath in a controlled, steady stream between pursed lips, before turning to the Acolyte.

“Go,” she ordered in a deadened voice, gesturing for him to lead the way. The young man spun on his heel and snapped into a brisk march through the Manor’s entryway, with Hermione following quietly in his wake.

The hum remained, deafening her ears with every pulse of its beat as she moved through the cavernous hallways and down the narrow servant’s entrance. The more she tried to focus on it, the more her thoughts scampered away, taking on unfamiliar, unordered and chaotic forms. Hermione ducked her head as she stepped out into the brightly lit corridor, the shattered crystal crunching beneath her boots. The young Acolyte led her through to the kitchen where several Unspeakables were spaced around the room; all in various states of thought with scrunched brows and sour looks of concentration as they searched for any evidence.

“Unspeakable Mona-”

“Ah good! Thanks…you,” Tal said as he suddenly appeared, standing from where he had been crouched in the space between the islands. The young Acolyte snapped his jaw shut with an audible click and dipped his head in a shallow bow before stepping aside.

“What have you found?” Hermione asked as she rounded the work station and stepped up to the body.

Tal’s brow furrowed as he followed her gaze down to the little elf.

“Not much unfortunately,” he solemnly said. “Dobbs and Janen managed to find a trace of a spell signature but it’s too muddied by foreign magic.” He gestured loosely to the elf, “which confirms the theory that the glass maelstrom was from this little bugger and not the intruders.” He scrubbed a hand viciously over his stubble, “which would mean that the intruders just managed to get a lucky shot in here, I’d imagine. Anyway, they’re doing their best but you know how elf magic is.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes tracing over the aggressive wounds. The delicate limbs were arranged as if a puppeteer had cut the strings, leaving the marionette to lie as it had fallen.

“What about the one upstairs?” Her voice was quiet in the hush of the kitchen, laced with obvious control. She saw Tal turn towards her from the corner of her eye. Hermione waited, purposefully relaxing her jaw and loosening her stance. She knew that he’d heard it; she knew what he was doing – she did it often enough herself. It was what they were all trained to analyse: non-verbal cues, body language, looking for consciously or unconsciously concealed emotion.

“How’s the Malfoy kid?”

The finger of her wand hand twitched as it hung loosely by her side.

“How is the one upstairs?” She repeated mechanically.

She could see a couple of Acolytes around the room lift their heads as they surreptitiously watched the exchange. She heard Tal’s hissing sigh before the sound of his beard being scratched permeated the thick pause as he thought.

“Same situation upstairs. She gave as good as she got - though we’ve managed to find a few splatters of blood, so hopefully, that’ll ping something,” he gruffed as he hoiked his trousers before crouching beside the elf once more.

“He was covered in blood,” Hermione bit out. Tal turned his head partially, lifting a pointed brow in question.

“Who now?”

Hermione scuffed her boot across the crunching crystal before aiming a sharp look towards the still watching Acolytes; they bumped into one another as they spurred into action, attempting to appear busy. One young woman merely opted to rub her finger against the countertop and inspected it as if it held the most interesting secret.

“Are we going to bring the DMLE in on this?” Hermione asked quietly keeping her voice low as her eyes followed the chaotic movements of the Acolytes.

“I don’t know,” Tal replied as he poked a shard of glass with his wand, casting a detecting spell. “I suppose we should but I’d rather leave it as long as possible.”

Hermione nodded to herself as her mouth set into a grim line.

“Granger,” Tal said wearily, turning towards her as he stood once again. “What happened with Mal-”

He snapped back from his approach. The glass scraped loudly under his boot as he jumped to avoid the owl that had dive-bombed between them. Hermione watched the bird land on the island beside her, its little chest puffing with exertion as it rested its amber eyes on her while held out its leg. She unravelled the note as Tal elected to curse the bird colourfully under his breath.

She felt the blood drain from her face as she read Ron’s scrawled script.

“Everything alright?” Tal asked when Hermione had been quiet a moment too long.

“It’s too much,” she whispered.

Her heart began to pound as her trembling fingers crumpled the parchment in their grip.

“What’s too much?” He said, concern darkening his features as he stepped closer.

“This, Tal!” She took a violent gasp as her chest constricted, brandishing the letter before her. “It’s too much, too soon, too fast. I -”

She leant forward, gulping huge mouthfuls of air into her burning lungs as the world swam before her.

Tal lunged forward. “Whoa, whoa, okay,” he pacified urgently as she felt his broad hands close around her shoulders.

“It’s – too – much.”

“What’s too much?” He hushed as he crouched down in front of her. “Hermione, who’s the letter from?”

She thrust the parchment toward him as she held her breath. Her chest shook under the strain of the hindered gasping impulse as the hum grew to a deafening roar in her ears. She realised the steady war drums she had been hearing, was now the chaotic timpani of her heartbeat that pounded endlessly in her head.

“Fuck,” Tal spat before standing. Hermione focused on his boots that remained in her field of vision. “Jensen, Phillips, get back to the office. Find Raine, tell him Scotland’s on fire, Yeti and Centaur at war near Loch Ness. Tell him I’m bringing Granger in now. Go!” She heard the scampering scrape of footsteps over the brittle ground as they hurried from the room. Hermione breathed a steady exhale, pushing against the urgent need to gasp as her vision darkened around the edges. She sunk onto her haunches, her head falling limply between her shoulders.

“Heller and Stoutly, go to this address, the floo’s open. There’s a Ministry presence there already so keep your heads down. Assess the situation, await further instruction.” Two more sets of feet grated against the ground before disappearing out into the corridor. “The rest of you - back to work, double time!”

The room filled with the sound of purposeful movement as Hermione began to the exercise of controlled, slow breathing to the numbers she counted in her head. Tal sunk before her again, his dark eyes searching hers as he tipped her chin up.

“What’s too much?” he said softly.

Hermione let out a weak laugh that threatened to slip into mania with a hitched breath.

“It’s been a bad week,” she said wetly.

Tal snorted indelicately. “No shit, how much has this got to do with Malfoy?”

She shrugged, her breath stuttering in her throat. “I…”

Hermione looked imploringly into the familiar eyes of her partner: steady, sombre, fierce and kind.

She felt like she was in the eye of a hurricane, trying desperately to catch the tendrils of wind that randomly lashed at her skin, but that always danced out of her reach at the last second.

One step in either direction and she knew she would be lost to the storm.

One wrong step and she knew the consequences would be fatal.

She felt small.

As small as she had felt the first time those silver eyes had turned their calculating sneer toward her.

She reached out a trembling hand that was quickly enveloped in the callused confines of Tal’s palm.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what’s going on. It could be nothing - this could just be a seriously bad week, with a series of shit coincidences…” Her hand tightened around his as she held on to him like a life raft in a dark ocean. “Or it could be something,” her grip tightened. “And the more that happens, the more that I hope that this is just really, _really_ bad timing.”

“Or what? What else could it be?” Tal croaked.

Hermione’s gaze left their sanctuary to settle on the still body behind him.

“I don’t know.”

**_19:15pm, 11 th of September, 1999 – 12 Grimmauld Place, Claremont Square, Islington, London, UK._ **

Hermione stepped out onto the hearth of a darkened room. Following their hushed conversation, sequestered between the islands in the Malfoy’s kitchen, crouched down amongst broken glass and blood, Tal had put his foot down.

_Well isn’t it our job to figure it out?_

They had left Jobson, a Junior Unspeakable from Hermione’s cohort who was a stickler for arithmancy and procedure, to run the Manor investigation while they had returned to Grimmauld Place intending to speak to Harry first before debriefing to Raine. She realised that she was perhaps, too late, as she took in the darkened space and empty rooms. She heard Crookshanks chirp from the shadows as she moved around the coffee table, making room for Tal to step through behind her.

“Oh I didn’t tell you,” he said nonchalantly, brushing down his uniform as the old scones that lined the walls, flared to life in welcome. “I saw Potter earlier.”

Hermione looked up sharply from where she had been scratching Crookshanks’ tufty ears.

“What? Where?”

“At the Ministry,” Tal replied easily as he inspected a nearby cabinet full of items. “He and Robards were getting into it and I thought I better bail him out.”

Hermione winced. “How bad was it?”

“Didn’t look friendly,” he said, poking the spyglass that Harry had bought on a whim one day.

Hermione concern etched her grimace as she headed into the kitchen. _Another thing to add to the list. First thing first, feed the cat._ The extravagant candelabra that hung as a centrepiece above the worktop, blazed to life. As the warm glow flickered between the vines and bushels that were twinned around its twisting arms, her eyes settled on two notes with her name on, that appeared to be haphazardly thrown in the fruit bowl. As she cautiously approached them, a sense of dread burrowed deep into her chest.

She unfolded the smaller one first, taking in Harry’s scratched script.

“Bollocks,” she swore softly to herself before calling out, “we’ve just missed him.”

“Have we?” A startled Tal replied, quickly followed by the sound of something toppling over.

“Yeah, he’s already gone to Scotland,” she said, rereading the hurried words. “That better not be broken.”

Guilty silence came from the living room as Hermione reached for the second, larger note. As her eyes scanned the prose, the familiar foreboding draped itself lovingly around her.

“Tal!”

Another clatter sounded before Tal appeared beside her. She handed him the note wordlessly and went to the cold-store, her thoughts racing as a wave of numbness washed over her.

_Feed the cat._

Her chest burned.

_Feed the cat._

Hermione summoned the magically preserved fish that she had brought the other day and set it out on the counter.

The hum had returned.

_“She said that he showed great promise for Enlightenment,”_ the note had said.

Crookshanks wound himself between her feet as she unsheathed a knife from the wooden block and sliced cleanly down the underbelly before efficiently beheading the body.

_“Theo said it was something to do with order and knowledge.”_

She splayed the body of the fish and carefully nicked the sinew at the base of the spine.

_“Let’s just call us Enlightened,”_ Enos’ voice slyly sneered from her memories.

Hermione peeled the intact skeleton from the meat and ran her fingertips over the fillets, checking for any small bones.

_Enos Ollivander, Eris Iskandar, Albin Perry._

She ran the knife cleanly through the flesh, slicing perfect pink ribbons.

_London, Texas, and Berlin._

She blindly summoned Crookshanks’ bowl while she gathered the prepared meat on the blade; she swiped it from the flat of the knife into the basin before cleaning the work area.

_MACUSA, the German Ministry…_

“What do you reckon that whoever the Enlightened are, that they’re in the British Ministry too?” She said as she picked up the bowl and walked it over to Crookshanks’ eating area.

“I’d say that’s a safe bet,” Tal intoned as he continued to scan the note.

“Have you heard of those two before?”

He shook his head. “No, you?”

“There was an Iskandar in Durmstrang years ago,” she said as she crossed her arms and leant her hip against the counter, absently watching Crookshanks settle into his food. “Rumour had it, he was a vampire, but I doubt that was the case.”

“Why’s that?”

Hermione shrugged, her eyes unblinking as she continued to stare into the middle distance. “I asked Victor, I don’t think he lied.”

A familiar quiet fell between them as Tal reread the letter and Hermione tried to quell her spiralling thoughts. Minutes passed before Tal’s voice cracked the quiet.

“Is it still a series of coincidences then?”

Hermione watched as Crookshanks chased the last sliver around the basin, his fur rippling with the movement.

“Some might be,” she said thoughtfully, settling her gaze on the counter. “Scotland maybe? Whatever is happening up there, couldn’t possibly be related this…surely?” Her eyes flicked to Tal as he lifted a lazy shoulder in response.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“Not here,” Hermione replied, clicking her fingers by her side in crisp command as she rounded the workbench; Crookshanks skipped to fall in step at her heels, closely followed by Tal.

“Where?”

She turned and hoisted Crookshanks into her arms, jostling his cumbersome weight against her shoulder as she reached for the pot atop of the mantle.

“The office,” she said, “we need Raine.”

She heard Tal snuff out the scones as she threw the powder into the grate.

“Don’t move Crooks,” she said into the Kneazle’s fur as she stepped into the green flame.

“Ministry of Magic.”

**_19:48 pm, 11_ ** **_ th _ ** **_of September, 1999 – Department of Mysteries, British Ministry_ **

It was Crookshanks who found him first.

The minute the elevator gate had cranked open, he had scurried out into the black polished corridor, his haughty bushy tail held indignantly high. Hermione had concluded that he had taken the floo ride as a personal offence and seemed intent on giving the humans the cold shoulder until he had deemed their apologies sufficient. With silent paws, he had skipped forward, slipping between harried feet that passed down busy corridors. He had spotted his new destination – a door that stood open ajar. The room beyond was chaotically messy; though the large desk appeared to be covered in clutter and parchment tumbled from the filing cabinets, it was clear of rushing bipedals. Crookshanks was just about to triumphantly disappear through the gap and begin his investigation of the room when the floor suddenly disappeared from beneath his paws as strong hands grasped tightly around his middle. After seconds of upwards travel, he looked down into the black eyes of the human that held him aloft.

The two blinked at one another, seeming to all around them as if they were sharing a silent - but intense - conversation.

Hermione rounded the corner, stepping wide to avoid a slightly singed researcher.

Her teeth clacked as her jaw snapped shut in surprise at the sight that met her eyes through a momentary parting in the crowded corridor.

Raine was stood in front of the warehouse door, staring calmly into Crookshanks’ scowling face as he held the kneazle high above him.

“Guess that answers that then,” Tal muttered as he slowed his long strides to match her surprised hesitation.

“Uh,” Hermione said, her brow creasing in mild confusion as she drew nearer to the two. “Sorry about Crooks, he -”

“Why is he so angry?” Raine said abruptly, his eyes darting between the feline's.

“Because Granger thought it would be a good idea to take him through the floo,” Tal replied, humour tinging his voice.

Hermione threw him a brief scowl over her shoulder before turning back to Raine, who had now curled Crookshanks protectively to his chest and was running absent fingers behind the tufty ginger ears as he looked expectantly between them.

“I’m hoping one of you two can explain to me why some younglings shouted at me that Scotland was on fire before running away?” He cocked a perfect brow over the mischief that had sparked in his eyes. Hermione flicked her glance over the corridor around them, assessing the potential listeners.

“Perhaps an office?” Tal suggested.

Raine’s gaze lingered a moment more, his face a blank canvas to his thoughts before he nodded. He turned crisply on his heel and set off in another direction with Crookshanks tucked against his shoulder.

Hermione couldn’t be certain as she followed behind, but she could have sworn she saw the man muttering quiet words into the kneazle’s ear.

Raine led them straight to his office. He opened the door with a dramatic sweep before stalking with determination towards the rows of jars that lined the shelves behind his desk, leaving Hermione and Tal to wander in behind.

“Do you want to talk first? Or shall I ask the questions I have?” He called over his shoulder as he reached for a tall glass jar.

“That entirely depends on the urgency of your questions,” Hermione said, as she and Tal lowered themselves into their seats on the closer side of the vast oak desk.

Raine made an amused noise as he crossed the room, holding out the jar as he came toward them.

“Very well, where is the Malfoy boy?” he asked as he handed the jar to Tal, who pried open the lid with only a touch of confusion, before placing it on the desk.

Hermione settled into her seat, crossing one leg over another as she watched him round his desk and lower himself into his tall wingback chair.

“He’s back at the place he is staying in Hyde Park gardens, I’ve told him to disconnect the Manor from the floo network there.” 

Raine nodded as he reached into the jar, withdrawing an ambiguously brown circle that he held in front of Crookshanks.

“Was he injured?” he asked, watching the kneazle’s pink nose twitch in investigation.

“No, he was fine. He had-” Hermione’s voice faltered suddenly as it caught in her throat.

The hum had returned.

She rested her hands on the arms of the chair, tightening her grip to claw at the leather as her chest stuttered against the swell of emotion. “He’d had,” she blinked mechanically, hitching small release of air, “a full transformation into his Veela state.”

Raine looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing as he observed her.

“Did he attack you?”

Hermione swallowed, forcing the air to funnel between her lips whilst she tried to maintain a calm composure.

_Molten mercury._

That’s all she had been able to think of as he had come towards her, blood streaking his jaw and white hair, his large clawed hands dripping. He had towered over her, ablaze with seething fury, wings stretched high, glinting ominously: all sharp points and power, like a rising dark morning star.

And all she had thought of was molten mercury set ablaze by the witchlight.

She remembered seeing once, how mercury was cast. She remembered the way the deep metallic silver had dripped so luxuriously, so intoxicatingly. Its swirling depths writhing in the burning heat.

_Like his eyes._

“No,” she said, blinking away the feel of his body against hers as she had pinned him. “No, he didn’t. He was stressed for obvious reasons.”

_Why lie?_

Raine met her gaze with his knowing look. Their standoff was broken by Crookshanks, who waved his soft paw in front of Raine’s face, demanding more of the ominous brown stuff that he had finished chewing.

Raine tutted as he reached into the jar once again and held it out for the kneazle to take as he turned to Tal.

“Found anything of interest yet?”

“No, not yet. The elves put up a fight, so it’s rather difficult to sift through the residue to pick up a clear signature. However,” he said, as he slouched further into his seat, “some blood has been found on the upper floors, so we’re hoping that that’ll give us something. Jobson’s in charge, so expect a full and very detailed report.”

Raine nodded once before reaching into the jar once again.

“Very well, that’ll be my questions for now. I assume what you have to say is to do with Scotland?” Hermione nodded. “Very well, that’ll be my questions for now. What do you have to report?”

Hermione relaxed her whitened grip and subtly stretched her neck.

“Permission to read Monaghan fully into my goings-on this week?” 

The corner of Raine’s lips twitched as his gaze slid over to Tal, who Hermione saw mime zipping his mouth closed in her peripheral vision. Raine released an amused grunt as he too leant back in his chair, Crookshanks purring loudly against his chest.

“Permission granted.”

Tal pulled the notes from Harry that he had folded and put in his pocket before leaving Grimmauld Place and handed them to Hermione – much to Raine’s quiet amusement.

“Where to begin,” she sighed, opening the parchment. She looked up to see Raine’s raven eyes watching her intently. The air around him was still as if it were waiting to see his reaction.

Would it be full of kinetic fired energy?

Or would it crackle like ice?

Hermione bounced her leg once on the ball of her foot before she began her debrief. She told him first of the meeting with Scotland Yard and Enos Ollivander, with Tal jumping in every so often to fill in a detail she had missed.

“How did the muggles take it?”

“The ones we’re in contact with at MI5, they took it in their stride. They have questions obviously, but they seemed un-phased at what Enos was saying about magic,” Hermione mused.

“I like ‘em,” Tal added cheerfully with a wide grin.

Hermione raised a questioning brow at him. “You weren’t so keen, what changed?”

Tal shrugged and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “I saw them in action I guess. They’re sound.” Hermione watched him for a moment more, before turning back to Raine who was running his hand absently over Crookshanks’ tail as he observed with open curiosity.

“What happened next?” He asked.

“I went home; next you heard from me was the notebook,” Hermione turned back to Tal, a question on her lips.

“I went back to the DMLE,” Tal said, catching her unspoken intention.

Raine nodded his head slowly, his eyes measured in their coolness. “And how are our dearest Aurors?”

Tal blew out a heavy sigh, puffing his cheeks. “Resenting me for every second more I’m up there.”

“Are you compromised?” Raine asked the cut of his voice was as sharp as glass.

Tal shook his head with only a slight hesitation. “Not yet, I don’t think. But I don’t think it’ll be much longer. Robards certainly doesn’t want me sniffing around.”

Raine sucked on his tooth as his eyes drifted off to the side in thought. 

“Is this still to do with the Waterloo investigation?” Hermione asked, her gaze bouncing between the two men as she directed her question to Tal.

“Aye,” he said wearily. “Though it’s been a nightmare. They’re bringing in every street-rat known to their files.”

Hermione frowned as she blew an errant hair from her eyes. “Why?”

“Two theories,” he said, holding out his left hand with two fingers up. “The first is that they’re panicking. They know that it’s a magical issue, not muggle, so they’re bringing in every low life in the hopes of catching a bite. They’re scrambling.” He lowered a finger. “The second is that it’s noise.”

Raine grunted in the back of his throat and raised an imperious eyebrow as the air around him darkened.

“It was Robards’ command. A couple of the guys, they’re decent - Finnegan and Thomas - think they were in your year Hermione?” She nodded in agreement. “Yeah, they’re good. When Robards gave the order to bring everyone in, they tried to argue for investigation but they were shouted down by Robards’ inner circle.”

“Their names?” Raine asked lowly.

“Montague, Alderton, Denbright, Renshaw, Peaks and Tuttle.”

“Harry never mentioned anything about an inner circle,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “But he was being kept on the fringes. Robards kept him on paperwork.”

Raine hummed looking off to the side again in thought. “How much control do you have over the taskforce Monaghan?”

“Not a lot,” Tal replied bitterly. “It’s pretty much in name only. Robards is pulling the strings and anything else is reported to his ever-present lacky: Arnold Simpkins. It’s common knowledge at this point that any orders I give are run past either him or Robards and his Aurors do whatever he wants them to, especially if it is to subvert my command. The other Aurors on the floor who aren’t in his circle, they’re following my lead, but that’s causing some serious friction.”

“How much longer before you’re comped entirely?” Raine asked.

Tal drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, a calculating look on his face. “I think I’ve got one more run up there before I’m no longer welcome. I think the firing of Potter has something to do with the growing animosity to my being there if I’m honest.”

“Do you know why they fired him?” Hermione asked, her curiosity peaked.

“Nothing concrete,” he replied. “Though Finnegan thought it was because he stuck his nose where Robards doesn’t want it. He was saying something about Montague but then a fight broke out and I missed the end of it.”

“You have one last go Monaghan, and I don’t want you lingering,” Raine said severely with a hard edge to the command. “In and out. Plan your attack before you get there. Gather intel, hook Finnegan and Thomas as informants if you can, find out who they’re currently holding and where they’re going next. But I want you out of there, understand?”

“Sir,” Tal replied with a curt nod.

Hermione frowned as she looked to Raine. “How much of a concern do you think the DMLE are?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, the lines of his face sharpening with tension. “I’ll come back to it. Continue with your debrief.”

Hermione exchanged a glance with Tal, passing the narrative between them.

“I sent you the George Ripley Journal,” she stated, shifting her seated position to swap her crossed legs.

Raine nodded. “I received it, interesting read I must say.”

“Malfoy’s inheritance raised a lot of questions,” she said turning to Tal. “A full creature inheritance after so many generations is rare. We’re _still_ waiting on the report of when the last time it occurred. I asked for books to be sent from Hogwarts, following a whim. George Ripley was a famous British alchemist in the fourteen hundreds who went on a journey of discovery. Paracelsus, a Swiss alchemist, pointed him to the Alpine mountains to where a tribe of Sylphs lived.”

“Sylphs?” Tal repeated, raising a questioning brow.

Hermione nodded. “I hadn’t heard of them either but turns out Ripley was a glad-hand for sketching.” She saw Raine pull his wand from the holster hidden in the swathes of his uniform. Suddenly, the leather-bound journal came whizzing towards them from the recesses of his office. It landed with a **thunk** on the desk, sliding a couple of inches before coming to a stop before Hermione. She picked it up, thumbing to the entry in question.

“Here,” she said, holding out the journal open on the sketches of Alewiss. “This is Malfoy. Same wings, same fangs, same teeth – same creature. The Veela that we know, are the female sirens, the Sylphs, the male of their kind, are their guardians, forming the perfect hunting pair and look here.” She flicked to the page previous.

“Shepherd of the wind,” Tal read aloud as he peered down at the page. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have no definite answers, only hunches,” Hermione replied, “but something about this is too convenient. A random inheritance that defies known knowledge into something that is described as this. Sure, it might be a metaphor or just a cute passing phrase, but what if it’s not?”

“You mean, what if Malfoy is actually a ‘shepherd of the wind’,” he said as his fingers curled into imaginary quote marks.

“Yes. Female Veela are mysterious enough, we don’t really know the extent of their abilities. But what do we know about Sylphs? Nothing really is my guess. And all of a sudden, Malfoy’s in an emergency hearing and there’s a random Bylaw that sets him free, that just so conveniently accounts for his creature inheritance? And then his home is invaded?” She shook her head as her fingers curled around the journal in her lap. “No, this was planned. As I read this, it seemed so…convenient isn’t the right word. My theory is that there’s some magic at work here that’s sparked the inheritance – for what gain I don’t know, other than if he _is_ a ‘shepherd of the wind’, that would be an important piece to have on your side. He just moved from a valuable target to a valuable asset.” She took a breath as her brow creased in thought. “I think it was the plan all along. They wanted him free and out of Azkaban so that he would be in the Manor when they came for him. Which means that we need to find out the veracity of the statement ‘shepherd of the wind’ to find out whether or not we have a Death Eater who is a walking, volatile powerhouse.”

“You mean Elemental magic,” Raine said darkly. It wasn’t a question.

Hermione nodded as Tal spoke, “I thought that wasn’t really a thing in terms of specialities? We all do Elemental magic as part of the package right? Magic is magic.”

Raine was still for a moment before he gently lifted Crookshanks onto the desk and stood. The kneazle scowled at the humans as he stretched while Raine wondered over to his shelves of jars.

“Yes and no Monaghan,” he said airily as he pulled down two jars: one tall and thin, the other, large and spherical. Hermione could see the contents of the spherical jar glitter between the gaps of his fingers as he carried it back to the desk. He placed them down and picked up his wand from where he’d lain it on the desk. After a second, a stone pestle and mortar drifted slowly over Hermione’s head. Raine plucked it from the air and settled it down between the jars before resuming his seat.

“Yes,” he began in a gentle voice, “in the sense that all magic is connected in some form or another. The differences that we see in the casting is due to the differences in conduits or the shapes that the spells force the magic to bend to. So you are right in the sense that I could cast a spell and have it create water…”

He pointed his wand at the mortar and whispered, ‘ _Aguamenti_ ’. Hermione watched the basin fill with clear water as Raine flicked his wand to the fireplace, setting it ablaze with roaring flame.

“Or I can create fire. It is the same magic, just a different elemental shape. But elemental magic is a different stream of magic entirely.” He vanished the water from the mortar and reached for the spherical jar. “It’s connected to this world in the same way that every ecosystem is connected in some tangential way, but it’s a different vein, a different _breed_ of beast from the magic we funnel from the ley lines beneath our feet.” He uncorked the jar and carefully tapped the contents over the mortar. It fell with a twinkling hush against the stone mortar. Fine opalescent powder that shimmered in the firelight streamed from the jar and fell with a twinkling hush into the stone basin.

“In the same way that the wild elements are unpredictable and powerful,” he continued, “elemental magic is equal parts inherently volatile, destructive and devastatingly beautiful.”

Hermione watched with rapt attention as Raine picked up his wand and performed a complicated wrist movement. A sibilant chant fell from his lips; the alien words flowing seamlessly into one another. The air in the room crackled as the humidity grew thicker making the errant curls of Hermione’s hair cling the back of her neck in the sudden, sticky heat. Crookshanks skittered off of the desk and scurried to hide under the nearest bookcase. She flinched as a branch of electricity sparked through the air. Closely followed by another. She watched as little forks of current crackled in the miasmic cloud around them that had now taken on a green hue as it began to bend and wind its way through the air above them as if it were a writhing snake of light. She felt the rumbling bass first, gather in the base of her sternum; she exchanged an apprehensive glance with Tal, as the hair on her arms stood on electrified end. The thunder broke as the air around them ignited with tiny sparks of forked lightning, bursting to meet one another like fractured spider webs as the luminescent snake grew and began to shift colours – from green to blue to pink.

It was the most beautiful magic that Hermione had ever experienced. It was the creation of a charged atmosphere. It felt like she was stood amongst the clouds of the Aurora Borealis, where the air that filled her lungs was clearest and crispest that she had ever tasted, and the universe was open above her. Her eyes drifted to Raine, who was in a meditative state, his eyes closed, quietly rumbling the alien chant. She had never really seen the extent of his magical ability; she had always assumed that it was sufficient from the way he carried himself and others deferred to him. But to literally be in the centre of his spell, to feel the atmosphere that fell from his lips electrify her skin, she knew at that moment that her suspicions were valid – he was something else. 

The electricity in the air began to wane as the ephemeral, dancing coloured lights faded into the dullness of the office ambience. Hermione looked over at Tal again to see that his shaggy hair had plastered to his forehead in a way similar to her own. While his face held signs of obvious admiration, his eyes reflected the same feeling that Hermione felt so keenly in her chest at that moment – fear.

Finally, Raine fell silent. He remained still, eyes closed as beads of sweat dripped down the side of his neck and his chest heaved with exertion.

“See? Different,” he breathed as he caught his breath.

Tal guffawed. “No shit.” He turned to Hermione, his brows furrowed on his glistening forehead. “You think someone did something with that magic to Malfoy?” His voice grating in the still silence. “You think Malfoy’s capable of _that?_ ”

Hermione met Raine’s eyes as they fluttered open.

“I’m certain of it,” she said grimly as Raine leaned back languorously in his chair. She caught the discreet dip of Raine’s head at her conclusion.

“But who would do that and why?” Tal said.

“Therein lies the question,” replied Raine. “My number one suspect is Gale Fawley from the Wizengamot. He was the one who raised the Bylaw notion. But he would have already garnered support before walking in that room – he’s not stupid. So right now, the suspect list is everyone who voted in favour of it.”

“Well I guess that potentially answers that question then unless there’s some other evil nefarious group in our midst,” Tal grouched, as he rubbed his finger and thumb roughly across his eyes.

Raine quirked an eyebrow. “What question?”

“Are they in the British Ministry?”

“Who?”

“The Enlightened that Enos Ollivander was on about,” Tal replied.

Raine looked between the Hermione and Tal, question evident on his face. It was a second before Hermione spurred into action, brandishing Harry’s note.

“The Voynich!”

Raine’s eyebrows shot high on his forehead.

“Harry and Nott managed to steal the Voynich manuscript and handed it over to Eris Iskander and Albin Perry,” she said, her eyes scanning the parchment before her. Raine jumped up from his seat and began to pace around the desk, passing behind them, his face the picture of focused hunger as Hermione began to read Harry’s letter aloud.

The room was still as she lowered the parchment to the desk, her eyes flicking to Tal who had scrapped back his damp tresses into a loose bun.

“So we reckon that this Enlightened group are in the MACUSA and the German Ministry,” Tal said.

“There are too many coincidences this week,” Raine growled as he rounded the table once more, looking every bit the prowling grim.

Suddenly he spun on his heel and slammed his large hands down on the table with an echoing **snap** that cracked like secondary thunder, his stance was taut as his eyes burrowed into Hermione’s.

“What does your gut say about the Black Forest?” His voice was a grating rasp as if all his mental effort was concentrated on containing the feral look in his eyes.

A memory flashed unbidden, as clear as day before Hermione. She was stood on a rocky outcrop on the shore of the Hogwarts lake one cold winter day in her seventh (read: eighth) year. The sky was overcast and dull making the world beneath, as sombre as she felt. The inky black, frigid waters lapped gently at the rock beneath her. She remembered seeing her reflection in its surface, wondering how deep and final the murky water had looked. She had plucked a large rock from the side of her and had dropped it into the water below. There had been a single **plop** as the rock broke the dark surface and she had watched the darkness and shadows swallow it hungrily, disappearing it forever from her world. She had wondered a moment on the finality of it; that the rock had disappeared to the black with nothing more than an innocent **plop.**

She marvelled now, as she looked into Raine’s eyes that were the same colour as the impossible inky depths, that this was the same innocuous moment when the last shred of hope disappears. There was no fanfare, no rows of epic choirs baying to the chorus. It was the same benign **plop** as the last spark of hope withered and sank into the pit of dread and fear that swirled in waiting at the bottom of her stomach, as she watched him make the same connection she had been trying not to acknowledge.

“My gut says it’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be connected,” she said, her voice void of emotion – clinical and clear.

“What happened in the Black Forest?” Tal asked tentatively.

Hermione shuttered her eyes as she drew breath. She quickly retold the story of Bill Weasley, the Kitsune, the Will-o’-the-wisp and the Inferi.

“Be mindful that this is entirely conjecture at this point,” Raine said tightly, as he straightened and pocketed his hands while resuming his prowl. “We need to establish evidence of a connection that somebody, I don’t know who used a port-key or something from the German Ministry, in that time. Otherwise, we could just be literally grasping a loose-ends here. It could be anyone – it’s a forest at the end of the day, anyone can come and go as they please.”

“True,” Hermione acquiesced with a slight dip of her head as he passed behind her chair. “However, let’s entertain the idea for a minute that this really is all connected. All of it.” She flicked her gaze over to Tal, who gave an imperceptible nod of encouragement. “There is a movement of people who call themselves Enlightened, who are set on deconstructing, what they refer to as the Antediluvian society and order. We have a magical suicide bomber in Waterloo station that we know is connected thanks to Enos, to this Enlightened movement. A faction of our DMLE is actively trying to muddy the suspect pool, led by the Head Auror – Robards. On the same day, we have a rare, full creature inheritance – Malfoy – caused by a hypothetical use and release of wild elemental magic. There is an active move to release him from Azkaban by members of the Wizengamot – Fawley?” She met Raine’s gaze as he rounded the desk and he nodded his assent. She wet her lips and continued, “not twenty-four hours after Malfoy is released on a prior planned defence of some obscure Bylaw, his is house raided. Meanwhile going backwards - and stick with me here because if we’re going by gut instinct, this is involved too,” Hermione looked pointedly between Raine and Tal who looked on with curiosity. “A Selkie and her horse goes missing.”

“What has tha-”

“Well,” Hermione said, interrupting Tal, “I didn’t think it was related, except this is the case that Harry was referring too in his letter. This is the case that got Robards’ knickers in a twist about the farm. Nott said that his Selkie friend asked him to find her horse, they – Harry and Nott – ended up at the farm where Harry found a murder scene. He brings Nott in and then Robards commands him to drop the case and let Nott go. Next thing they know, the Selkie’s missing too – taken from her bed with clear signs of a struggle. And now this!” She picks up Ron’s letter and brandishes it viciously.

“What’s that?” Raine asked as he prowled behind their chairs once again.

“Remember when we sent word Scotland was on fire?” Tal quipped.

“Ah,” Raine said, his face lighting up. “I was wondering when we would get to this.”

As Hermione read Ron’s scrawled letter, she was aware of the increasing heaviness in the atmosphere that surrounded them – one that she intimately recognised as being the souring of Raine’s mood.

“So,” she said, placing the note on the desk next to Harry’s. “Again, it could be entirely random. However, I again refer you to Harry’s letter when he says, ‘Iskandar said that they already had two pieces; that by last night – the tenth - they would have the third, and by this morning they would have the fourth.’” She roughly pushed back the errant hair that had fallen in her face. “What if the two that Iskandar was talking about was the Selkie and the Wisp. Because next in this timeline of disappearances is the Yeti in Scotland, the evening of the tenth, and then the break-in at Malfoy Manor this morning. _Which_ we already assume to be part of a conspiracy involving Elemental magic and the Ministry. We know Iskander and Perry have agents in MACUSA and Germany; Aldridge Alemán in Texas and Germany being where the Wisp, or the fire element, has disappeared from. And we know that they’re in the same league as Enos with all this Enlightened rhetoric that Harry also quoted Iskandar saying.” She took a stuttering deep breath, her heart and mind racing with adrenaline as she tied the knots. “So that means that whatever Iskandar was referring too with the Voynich and the ‘Red Dawn’, it’s related to Waterloo.”

Tal leant forward suddenly, his hand grasping the desk as he turned to her with wide eyes. “So if Robards is actively trying to waylay the Waterloo case then-”

“He’s in league with Iskandar, Perry, Ollivander, Fawley and Alemán,” Raine growled as he rounded the desk once again, his head bent reverently low in thought, dark hair falling into his eyes as he continued his circuit.

“Okay,” Tal slowly drawled, “let’s accept this is all to be true; that Iskandar, Perry, Ollivander, Fawley, this Alemán bloke and the DMLE mafia are all toting this Enlightened bollocks, and it’s got something to do with the Voynich, Malfoy, the Wisp and elemental magic.” He looked between Hermione and Raine, who was on his return journey around the desk. “I’m not seeing how a Selkie, a random Yeti and a fucking horse are fitting into this.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but paused, the words held poised on her lips.

She didn’t know either.

All she knew was that the timing and nature of the crime were too convenient.

“Yeti are Sharman,” Raine said quietly, his head still bent low, his arms now crossed over his chest. He moved like a sinister shadow, pacing the confines of his prison cell. “Yeti have always walked the line between, what we refer to as Divination, Dark Magic and Elemental magic. It’s a lot of blood and bone, giving life back to the earth as they receive gifts _from_ the earth. They’re at one with the land and nature around them.” He heaved a tired sigh and craned his head back, looking up toward the ceiling as he continued his route. “If we abide by the elemental theory, they are elementally in tune with the earth.” He rounded the desk one last time and threw himself down inelegantly into his chair. He reached for the tall and thin jar and roughly tore the lid off, pulling a long green string from within that he popped the end of into his mouth before offering the jar to them. Hermione waved him off as she followed the thought in her mind while Tal leant forward to accept the ominous, green string.

“But what’s the Selkie?” She said, a frown creasing her brow. “They’re not particularly known for water elemental magic are they?”

Raine shook his head, chewing on the string that slowly disappeared between his lips. “Not to my knowledge, but that’s not to say it’s not the case. Water creatures are notoriously secretive. They keep very much to their kin, and even then, it’s very much like a Thieves’ Cant between grouped coves – not species alliances.”

“Excellent,” Tal huffed with a flippant gesture. “So, what do we do?”

The hum returned.

It buzzed in Hermione’s ears as she looked at the mess before her. She supposed that it could all be false. It really could all just be a coincidence.

But if it wasn’t…

If they were right about all it, then that was at least three ministries under the influence of a group that was actively seeking to destabilise the status quo through elemental means. The more she looked at it, the more insidious it became. The Enlightened would have had to have had a way to get to Malfoy, to trigger his change. Which meant that they had people in Azkaban.

The guards - who are DMLE.

The wider the web grew, the more she realised that the plan would have been a long term plan. To bring that many people on board and have them be loyal to the cause, would have taken time. Otherwise, the group would have risked exposure.

A tendril of a memory tickled her thoughts.

“Who is Byron Rook?” She said to Raine who smirked into the fire.

“He’s the deputy warden of Azkaban, why?” Tal answered, confusion colouring his tone.

“He was the one who sent the first memo about Malfoy’s change and considering that I now suspect some of the guards at Azkaban to be not so clean, I think he might be worth talking to.”

“Very well,” Raine said, nodding absently. Hermione watched him, her eyes detailing his relaxed posture as he seemed to get lost in thought once more. She recalled their first debrief on this case: the way she had thought his behaviour alarmingly weird as he had learnt about Malfoy.

“You knew…”

Raine’s eyes flicked to meet hers.

“I asked you that day how you knew about Malfoy and you said you couldn’t say.” She roughly pushed back a lock of hair that fell into her eyes. “Then you handed me the memo and sent me off to Germany. I asked you then Raine! I asked you if it was all connected and you said -”

“You tell me Little Bird,” he said quietly, his voice holding a sinister undertone. “I didn’t know for certain it was connected. I had a feeling. When you described the Malfoy boy’s inheritance I believed it to be something more, perhaps elemental, but that would have been a random and unfounded leap based upon biased prerequisite beliefs,” he said in a measured voice. “I also received the memo regarding the happenings in Germany the same day, before Mr Weasley’s memo arrived. Two acts of rare magic on the same day is notable. I thought there was a possibility that they would be connected, if only for the magic that had been used. I put you on the case for that reason Little Bird. You have a tendency to see logic where I admittedly cannot. If I was hearing hooves and thinking zebras, not horses, you would have found that out.”

Hermione's teeth clacked as her mouth snapped close. His reasoning was sound – even if it did stroke her ego somewhat. She nodded in understanding to Raine who turned back to the fire. She had been quick to accusation because of the feeling of the walls closing around her. If it was to be believed that the Enlightened had infiltrated the British Ministry, they could hold any position -

And right under the nose of the Minister who had been actively gutting the Ministry of Voldemort’s followers…

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, “Merlin…”

“What?” Raine replied, his eyes snapping to her.

“Shacklebolt. He’s been stress-testing the integrity of the Ministry. Either he’s missed, what is apparently a very large sect within the Ministry, or-”

“He’s known about them all along,” Tal said darkly as he leant forward, his elbows on his knees, his face in his cupped hands.

“What do we do?” Hermione said, her voice as fragile as thin ice as she looked to Raine across the desk.

“Well,” he said wearily, his eyes drifting to the fire. “We do what we always do with any case. Test the theory for flaws. So, now that Potter’s gone from the DMLE, they’re going to move fast and close ranks. Monaghan, you’ve got very little time to get in and out of there. What are your priorities?”

Tal lifted his head and scraped a hand roughly over his chin as he looked to Raine. “Recruit Thomas and Finnegan, that’s it. I’m not going to have time for anything else I don’t think, judging by how much they dislike me already.”

Raine nodded his agreement. “Be careful. No risks. No heroics. In and out, clear?”

“Sir,” Tal nodded.

“I need to get a message to Bill,” Hermione said. “He’s heading the Curse Breakers in the Black Forest. I’ll see if he’s able to find out about the Portkey with the German Ministry, and also see if we can get a name for Iskandar and Perry’s guy over there.”

Raine steepled his fingers beneath his chin and watched as Crookshanks re-emerged from his hiding place under the bookcase.

“I also said that I’d meet with Malfoy tomorrow to go over the Manor investigation. Perhaps I can see if I get any more information about his inheritance and his abilities to try and confirm the elemental theory,” she mused.

Raine hummed, “what about Mr Ollivander in Scotland Yard?”

Tal grunted as he shifted in his seat. “I can follow up there. Did you put in the request for veritaserum Hermione?”

“I did,” she said, “I also sent a note to Garrick Ollivander, requesting a conversation to try and find out more about Enos.”

“Any reply?” Raine asked.

“Not yet,” Hermione replied.

“Okay, Granger you’re on Malfoy, Monaghan you’re on Ollivander,” Raine said as he dipped into the jar of ambiguously brown treats for Crookshanks, who had now hopped on to the desk. “I want you both to keep in touch on the regular. Anything else?”

“Scotland,” Hermione and Tal said together. They shared a glance before turning back to a bemused looking Raine.

“We’ve sent Heller and Stoutly ahead to scope the situation out but I think I need to assess the scene myself – just to see if there is a way to confirm whether it is one of ours,” Hermione said.

Raine nodded. “Very well, will you go after Malfoy?”

“Yes, are you coming too?” she asked Tal, who snorted indelicately before replying.

“Like I’d let you walk into a warzone by yourself,” he said with a hard smile. She felt her lips lift in a mirror of his grim expression.

It wasn’t a happy moment.

“What about you Sir?” Tal asked.

Raine ran his long fingers through Crookshanks’ fur, watching indulgently as the kneazle nibbled on the brown treat.

“I’m going to find the poison in the Wizengamot and have a wonderful conversation with Shacklebolt, as well as begin that delightful process of closing our ranks and checking our allegiances.”

Tal grimaced and swore under his breath. Hermione worried her bottom lip, her eyes settling on the dark man. “What about everything else? The Selkie? The Wisp? Malfoy possibly being in danger?”

“I’ll have acolytes shadow him while you’re in Scotland,” Raine said decisively. “As for the Selkie and Wisp? One thing at a time. If all this is true then - we find the Enlightened, we find the Selkie and the Wisp, we stop whatever they’re cooking up with the Voynich.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Tal said glibly.

Raine threw him a dark smirk. “Come on Monaghan, live a little! It’s like you’ve never been to war before.”

“How long has it been since I last told you, you were insane?” Tal replied, his lips curling into an equally bitter smile.

“Two days,” Raine stated proudly, as he offered Crookshanks another treat. “You took great offence to my idea about a Samhain hunt in the Timor Tunnels.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Tal said brightly, rolling his eyes. “I think I actually repressed that memory you know?” He added nonchalantly, to Hermione’s amusement.

Raine stood and started placing the lids back on the jars, much to Crookshanks’ dismay. “Are we set then?” He asked, as he picked up his wand and with a flick of his wrist, sent them floating back to their places on the shelves.

Tal and Hermione stood.

“Aye,” Tal said, “I’m going to head to the DMLE now. I’m pretty sure Thomas and Finnegan are on.”

“I’ll come with. I’ll wait outside though,” Hermione said. She met Crookshanks’ amber eyes. “I’ve also got to find somebody to look after you for the foreseeable future, haven’t I?”

“He can stay here,” Raine said as he stepped out from behind his desk. “He’ll have great fun in the warehouse I reckon and I’m sure Tin would appreciate the help.” He paused for a moment to scratch the tufty, orange ears. “I’ve always thought it would be a good idea to have an office animal that doesn’t want to eat us you know?”

Tal snorted as he stepped away, while Hermione looked to Crookshanks. “Fancy that?”

Crookshanks stood, stretched and hopped down on to Raine’s now empty seat. He circled twice before curling into a ball and settling in for a nap.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hermione said with one final look at the kneazle before she fell into step beside Raine as they exited the office.

“You ready for this?” He asked quietly as he pocketed his hands. Hermione looked up to meet the dark eyes that watched her with a knowing glint.

“No,” she said honestly. “Are you?”

Raine smirked and released a sinister chuckle before raising his eyes to look ahead.

“I never am Little Bird.”

**_11:49 am, 12_ ** **_ th _ ** **_of September, 1999 – Penthouse, Hyde Park Gardens, London UK._ **

The moment that Hermione stepped through into the airy space of the penthouse, she was greeted by the sight of Theodore Nott, lounging on the sofa in grey joggers and a deep blue silk robe that hung loosely open, exposing the lines of his lithe abdomen.

“Granger,” he said in a gravelly, sleep-addled voice, as he plucked an espresso cup from the coffee table and took a dainty sip with his little finger pointed.

“Nott,” she replied as confidently as she could. Though Malfoy had sent an owl to say he would be free around quarter to twelve, her already highly-strung nerves were on their last edge what with Nott being…well…Nott.

“Malfoy should be expecting me?” She said. Nott nodded as his tongue flicked out to catch the remnants of coffee from his lips.

“He is; he’s just popped upstairs.”

Hermione nodded in understanding and looked around the room. It was a long open space, with a breakfast area artistically laid out by the bar and plenty of options for luxurious relaxation on the opulent sofas. Windows lined the expanse of the wall to the ceiling, giving the space an extraordinarily open feel. Through the glass, she could see the vast sprawling greenery of both Hyde Park below and the rooftop garden that lay just beyond a conservatory walkway. She had caught a brief impression of it all the day previous, though her intention had mainly been focused on the bleeding little elf.

“I hear the handover was successful,” she commented conversationally, turning back to Nott. “Harry reckons you’re being recruited?”

He frowned suddenly, twisting sharply to look over his shoulder at the open floor.

“And I thank you for keeping that between us,” he replied lowly, levelling her a pointed look as he turned back to settle in his seat.

Hermione raised a brow as a smirk teased her lips. “Keeping secrets?”

“Oh, you want to play Little Lion?” He drawled, spreading his arms across the back of the sofa. Hermione restrained the urge to fidget under his watchful gaze as his eyes slowly looked her up and down. “Shall we play the little game of guessing whether Harry knows his best gal pal is an Unspeakable?”

_Yep, walked into that one,_ she thought, realising too late she had donned her informal work gear of goblin weave and leather. Though it wasn’t the uniform that people often associated with Unspeakables – that would be the formal uniform that was worn to hearings - she knew that she did not look like she was merely out for a lunchtime stroll. With a sigh, she stepped into the seating area as the second realisation hit her.

“Malfoy told you,” she stated as she lowered herself into one of the numerous chairs. Nott gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Wizards always gossip more than witches darling,” he said with a smirk as he lifted his cup in mock salute.

Hermione jumped as a black cat suddenly pounced on the arm of her chair.

“Someone’s touchy,” Nott tutted.

“It’s been a long night,” Hermione replied as she ran her hand over the cat’s glossy fur. She and Tal’s excursion had taken longer than expected. As good Aurors are want to do, Seamus and Dean had treated Tal’s suggestion of secret secondment to the DoM with intense suspicion. It hadn’t been until he had brought them to Hermione did they even want to hear the whole reasoning behind the move.

“His name?” she asked.

“Renfield.”

Hermione paused and blinked at Nott, who held her gaze with his ever-present, infuriating smirk.

“He likes eating spiders,” he offered by way of explanation.

“You’ve read Stoker?” She said, disbelief colouring her tone.

Nott chuckled deeply. “Do you not think me capable of reading?” He said with a wicked twinkle in his eye as he dodged the implication. “Granger, I’m hurt, truly.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the purring cat that perched beside her.

A strangely comfortable quiet filled the lapse in conversation as she continued to absently pet the purring Renfield beside her.

“Have you heard from him?”

Hermione looked over to Nott questioningly, to see him staring into his little cup with worrying intensity.

“Harry?”

Nott’s head jerked in some estimation of a nod before he sharply threw back the dregs of his drink.

“Uh, not really,” she hedged, uncertain of his sudden change in demeanour.

Nott stood fluidly from his chair, the tassels of this silken robe flowing freely in his wake.

“He sent me a note saying he was headed to Scotland as well as this,” he said, pulling a piece of parchment that appeared to have well-worn creases from being folded and re-folded. Hermione carefully flattened the page to see Ron’s script baring the same message she had received.

A slight crease knotted her brow as she ran a finger gently over the fraying folds.

“No I haven’t heard from him, but I’ll be heading up once I’m done here,” she said quietly, as she handed the parchment back. Nott ran gentle fingers along the edge as he stared at the page in consternation before folding it once more and tucking it back into his pocket.

“Would you…” She hesitated, the words falling from her lips before she had put any real thought behind them.

Nott’s expectant blue eyes settled on her. Though he held the calmed poise of the upper class in his high cheekbones and sharp jaw, Hermione could see the intense feeling that writhed just under the surface of his cool blue pool.

Her curiosity peaked and won out as she noted the way that his previously indolent stance had tensed and stillness pervaded his form.

She smothered the endearing smile that threatened to spread across her lips. “Would you like me to pass on a message to him?” 

“To who?”

A jolt of electricity ran down Hermione’s spine at the sudden intrusion of Malfoy’s deep, silken voice. Her eyes met Nott’s whose widened a fraction as he gave a brief shake of his head before turning, an elfin grin alighting his face.

“That was a long thirty seconds,” he said by way of greeting Malfoy, who ambled leisurely towards them across the living space. “The fuck were you doing?”

Hermione gave Renfield one last stroke before she too stood, squaring her shoulders as she took him in. The last time she had seen him, he had been a hair’s breadth from humanity; she viscerally remembered the stain of copper that stood stark against his white hair, the way his snarl had highlighted his fangs as he had stalked toward her.

She struggled to reconcile that memory with the man before her now – even with the man who had so tenderly carried the elf to safety.

Draco Malfoy came to stop on the far side of the sofa, his hands pocketed casually in his black trousers, his silver eyes cool as they assessed her in turn. The cut of the black shirt highlighted the way his broad shoulders tapered into his narrow waist, lending him a severe cut to his already imposing presence.

“Unspeakable Granger,” he greeted quietly in his dark baritone.

“Mr Malfoy,” she replied, with equal amenity. 

As Hermione met his eyes she felt the same fission of heat run down her spine once again.

Her pulse thrummed under her skin.

Her breath echoed cavernously in the silence of the moment.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she forced herself to say, the words feeling unnatural as they pushed past her tongue.

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

“Forgive me for saying Unspeakable Granger, but we both know I don’t really have a choice in the matter.”

“Well,” Nott said abruptly from where he had leant against the chair, his eyes bouncing between the two of them. “You seem to be playing nice so I’m gonna go. Lovely seeing you Granger must catch u-”

“Not so fast,” Malfoy called as Nott scampered past him. The silk robe flamboyantly swished as he skidded to an abrupt stop and twirled to face Malfoy. “Didn’t you want to pass on a message?”

Nott blinked slowly and smacked his lips with a loud **pop** , before he straightened his posture, his trademark charming grin shining bright as he turned to Hermione.

“Right, yes,” Nott breezed, “tell him I can be there in a jiffy if he needs a ride.”

She felt Malfoy’s gaze on her as she struggled to keep her features emotionless.

“Of course,” she said pleasantly. 

Nott winked as he spun back around on his heel and skipped across the space to disappear up the stairs.

The air grew heavy as the silence began to settle between Malfoy and herself in the absence of Nott’s buoyancy. She rolled her shoulders and turned to him, meeting the eyes that watched her already.

“How are you after yesterday?” she asked politely.

The only acknowledgement that Malfoy made of her question was the slow rise of his perfect brow.

His lack of response strained the silence to the point that of palpable discomfort.

“Padry is doing well,” he said finally. “He’s resting at the minute but I can wake him if you need to talk to him?”

Hermione shook her head slightly. “No, leave him be for now. Did he tell you what happened?”

“Yes,” he said before he seemed to hesitate. “Would you like to sit or…?”

“Thank you,” she said, resuming her seat next to Renfield as Malfoy slowly rounded the sofa. She marvelled at how someone so tall could be so graceful as he folded himself into the furthest seat from her.

“Padry said that it was a group of witches and wizards he didn’t recognise,” Malfoy reported, his tone formal and clipped with frost.

Hermione frowned slightly. “Did he say what time?”

“Just after midnight.”

“Do you have any idea what they wanted?” She continued.

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched once again as he lowered his gaze to pick some invisible lint from his trousers.

“A cup of tea I imagine.”

Hermione felt a familiar burn within her chest as she laced her fingers tightly in her lap.

“Mr Malfoy, if you could please take this seriou-”

“Believe me Unspeakable Granger,” he said, his voice lowering darkly, curling around the barest hint of a growl as his eyes flashed dangerously. “I am taking it seriously.”

“Then-”

“I just simply don’t understand why you are here?”

Hermione’s voice froze on her tongue from the coldness of his question.

She felt her lips tighten as she tried to rein in the fire that ignited up her throat.

He kept his cool gaze level with hers as he waited for her reply.

“You know why I am here Mr Malfoy,” Hermione replied evenly.

“Do I?” He replied.

She released a quick breath, her mind racing quickly as she watched him.

Malfoy was sat perfectly still across from her, one leg crossed over the other, his hands neatly folded in his lap. He was a study of contrasts: on the one hand, he was poised with sharp, hard lines; the cut of his cheekbones was healthier than when she’d last saw him, but still no less severe; his jawline still as strong against the cords of his long neck. The perfect black of his tailored clothes stood stark against the whiteness of his hair and the paleness of his skin.

Hard edges.

Sharp lines.

Black and white.

And yet…

A single lock of the casually coiffed hair fell down over his forehead, marring the perfect finish.

Hermione raised her own imperious brow.

This wasn’t a conversation – this was a game of which she hadn’t been told the rules.

_Change tactics._

The silence stretched painfully taut as she watched his eyes melt from cold silver to swirling mercury.

“That’s right,” he drawled, his familiar cruel sneer stretched across his lips. “I’m the Department of Mysteries’ new pet aren’t I. _That’s_ why you’re all bent out of shape.”

Hermione waited, holding his heated gaze. “Is that what you believe?” she asked evenly.

Malfoy scoffed bitterly. “But of course _Unspeakable Granger,_ why else would you care that somebody tried to kill little ol’ Death Eater me?” His voice was cruel as the calculating eyes that watched her.

_There you are,_ she thought as she unflinchingly held his gaze.

“If it brings you any comfort to think that Mr Malfoy, then by all means,” she said with deliberate nonchalance.

She caught his hands curl inward in his lap, his knuckles whitening from their grip.

She inwardly preened in victory.

“So your elf wasn’t able to identify any of the assailants?” Hermione asked with over polities.

Malfoy’s jaw popped, chewing his words before answering with a deadened, “no.”

“Very well, we’re having trouble locating the residents of the portraits. Any ideas where they have gone?”

“No, perhaps to their neighbouring portraits.”

“Which are where?”

Malfoy lifted a shoulder in a flippant shrug. “Around.”

Hermione bit back her huff.

“Very well,” she said. “If he remembers anything else, let us know.”

Malfoy cocked his head, his gaze assessing. “Shouldn’t I be in contact with the Aurors on the case?”

“ _No!_ ” Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from saying more.

Malfoy’s brows rose high on his forehead. “Does the Department of Mysteries not like to share their toys?”

Hermione scoffed forcefully, rolling her eyes at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He pursed lips, his eyes narrowing over their wicked glint. “I’m usually on the other side of this equation,” he drawled, “but even I’m pretty sure it’s poor form to call the victim of attempted murder ‘ridiculous’ Granger.”

Hermione swallowed her retort and straightened her shoulders, disregarding his quip. “The DMLE are not on your case Mr Malfoy,” she said, her tone resuming her business manner. “As you keep alluding to, you are under the protection of the-”

“Yes, yes,” he said dismissively. “Is that all your questions then?”

Hermione loosened the dead grip of her hands in her lap and breathed slowly while a mechanical smile tilted her lips.

“A couple more things.”

She caught the brief curl of his upper lip baring a hint of a snarl before he turned away from her to look out the window, his features once more composed.

“How are you finding your inheritance?” she asked, bulldozing ahead into the crater of tension between them.

He gave no sign of acknowledging her question as he continued to look out onto Hyde Park. She bit back her frustration and resigned herself to the fact that the topic would come at his pace. Had it not been for the pressing matter of the conversation she had had with Raine and Tal the day before, she would have happily left, bidding him a ‘good day’ and wishing him well with a parting stinging hex for good measure. As it was, she settled in to wait him out and as she did, she studied his profile. Now that she was freed from weight of his gaze, she could note the difference in him more clearly from when she was able to study him last - in his cell. Their encounter at the Manor had been too brief, too quick and too fraught to consider anything more than removing him from a dangerous environment. But now, as the bleak midday light shone through the vast windows of the penthouse, she couldn’t help but notice the change.

He was ethereal.

The pointiness that she had associated with his teenage features were now defined and striking. Objectively, he was cruelly handsome; a twisted beauty of refined aristocratic features and intense eyes.

“Have you been seeing St. Mungo’s?” Hermione tried.

The corner of Malfoy’s lips twitched. “No.”

Her brows creased in confusion. “Oh,” she said ineloquently.

Malfoy turned back to her, his own pointed brow raised in question.

Hermione’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. “I just assumed because you’re looking a lot better…”

He made a noise in the back of his throat as he looked back out of the window. “No, this was just a happy by-product of the inheritance,” he said quietly.

“How did it happen?”

While his face remained passive and emotionless, she saw the mercury flash in his eyes as they slid back to her.

“It just did.”

Hermione frowned. “Was there any precursor? Did you wake up fully healed? Was it gradual?”

Malfoy sighed, huffing his breath heavily through his nose. “Do you require it for your files?”

“Yes Mr Malfoy,” she replied. It was a considerable effort for her to keep calm.

“I don’t see why,” he replied in an insolent tone as he lowered his gaze to his own clasped hands. “Inheritances happen all the ti-”

“Not like yours.”

He snapped his gaze up to meet hers.

For a brief moment, she saw his curiosity blaze, uncaged and free. For a second, her words rushed to the tip of her tongue, excited to spill her secrets and share her theories with him. But in the space between heartbeats, the shutters fell and his eyes cooled, leaving her to swallow them forcefully away.

“What makes mine different?” he asked. His words only held the touch of a taunting edge as he stretched his long legs out before him, hooking his ankles, appearing at ease in his languid repose.

“Other than the information that I know that you’re already aware of?” Hermione quipped.

Malfoy jutted his jaw forward as a smirk curled on his lips. “How can one, even so bright as you, propose to know the extent of information another person holds without any grounds or enquiry? If I recall, Divination wasn’t your thing.” His voice dripped with malignant condescension.

It was Hermione’s turn to narrow her eyes. “Keen memory,” she commented offhandedly. “The entire purpose of this conversation is to find out what you know Mr Malfoy. I only presume that you are aware that you have Veela in your bloodline because you were present in the room when your mother told me.” She smiled sweetly, “unless I presume too much of your conversational abilities?”

Malfoy held her gaze a moment more before turning his eyes to the window.

Hermione was trying to refrain from throwing something at him for his obnoxious behaviour when he spoke.

“My grandfather,” he said quietly.

Hermione frowned at his change in tone. “Was he a -”

“Only traits,” Malfoy supplied, glancing at her briefly from the corner of his eye before resuming his watch. “My mother -” He took a heavy breath and brought his hand up to run it through his hair. Hermione started at the way the cold light of the day reflected on the obsidian talons that stood in stark contrast to his white locks they made rivets through. “I asked my mother to do some research. She’s currently indisposed however she does appear to have learned some information - though from where, I’m not sure. I can only presume it was from either the portraits or from making use of the library – or she might have just known it and overlooked telling me before now.” He cleared his throat as he glanced at her again. “You – if you wish – may use those resources if you think they will aid you Unspeakable Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise before she ducked her head to mask her features. Two thoughts occurred to her in that moment: firstly, was that it was one thing to go traipsing around the Manor on Ministry orders searching for dark or cursed items, or assessing a crime scene. It felt like something else entirely to do it with his blessing. The second was that trying to hold a conversation with Malfoy was like trying to reason with the tide. His hostility and frosty demeanour came in waves between cordial and gentle behaviour.

A measure of opposing contrasts.

“Thank you,” she said calmly before returning back to him. “Small issue of the portraits…?”

The corner of his mouth ticked up in an approximation of a smirk.

“They’ll be back.”

Hermione re-crossed her legs before her. “Very well. I have heard the library is rather big, in what area do you suggest I begin? Is there a catalogue?”

“There is a librarian.”

She paused feeling wrong-footed, tilting her head as if to hear better. “There’s a librarian?”

“Yes.” The mercury of Malfoy’s eyes had cooled to a placid silver that held the echoes of the smirk that danced on his lips.

“Right… well,” she said, as she tried to get her feet back under her. “Who is the librarian and where do I find them?”

“Margot Malfoy Née Vaillancourt. She was Nicholas Malfoy’s wife,” he said, his accent slipping into impeccable French pronunciation, “and I imagine she is in one of her many other portraits.”

Hermione rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she pursed her lips in a demonstration of quiet frustration.

“You apprecia-”

“I do appreciate how inconvenient that is,” Malfoy said smoothly, his eyes flashing. “Is the Manor still crawling with my new keepers?” 

“Not really,” she replied, ignoring his jibe, “it’s just the forensic researchers there now. They’re still trying to detangle to signatures.” She had received a note from Jobson in the early hours of the morning, detailing in language that would make a sailor blush, how frustrating this task was proving to be.

Malfoy nodded to himself before turning his attention out the window once more. “Well should you need assistance with the library before Margot returns, I can lend my services.” 

Hermione’s mother favourite phrase when she was a young girl was ‘ _never look a gift horse in the mouth’._ For years she had struggled to understand the phrase because, as she has ruminated, though the whole statement inferred an act and behaviour in its totality, the logics of the statement if taken by wrote was comical.

 _“But why can’t you look a gift horse in the mouth?”_ She would say, her young grubby hands clumsily waving in exclamation. _“What is a gift horse? How is it different from a normal horse…?”_

That would be the point that whichever parent she had been interrogating at the time would try to distract her with something shiny or breakable.

And yet, as her eyes met his, she understood what it meant in its entirety.

“Thank you,” she said and before she could even think through her next thought, the words fell from her mouth. “Can we go now?”

Malfoy smirked, huffing a quiet, rumbling laugh to himself. “Still got a hard-on for libraries then Granger?”

“Can we go or not Malfoy?” Hermione huffed. “I have other things I need to do today but I’d like to leave here with as mu-”

“ _Alright, fine,_ ” he urged, holding his hand out to cease her words.

Hermione noted that his long fingers were no longer adorned with their pointed tips.

Malfoy stood gracefully, his long form towering above her as she rose from her seat too.

“Did you disconnect the floo as I said?”

“Pans has gone to do it this morning.”

She subtly wiped the palm her hand against her uniform. “Side-along them?”

He eyed her a moment before he dropped his head, seemingly in defeat and held out his arm.

“I promise you Malfoy,” she said archly as she curled her hand into the crook of his arm, “the filth isn’t contagious.”

She saw his jaw pop and she felt him tense under beneath her fingertips. She looked up, feeling the tension radiate in waves as his eyes remained fixed on a spot in the distance.

_That right there, was what mum said not to do._

She felt his chest expand with a subtle sigh. “I hope you’re not waiting for me to apparate us.”

Her brow creased in confusion as her lips parted in question.

“Death Eater creature newly released from Azkaban Granger,” he said, as he looked sardonically down at her. “No one’s rushing to give me my wand back.”

“Oh.” The noise of surprise didn’t even begin to cover her shock at the revelation. “Right, of course.” She snatched her own wand from her holster that was hidden beneath the folds of her robes. “I’ll just uh…”

“You probably should, yes,” Malfoy said coldly. 

Hermione rolled her eyes as she flicked her wand, feeling the familiar pull in her navel.

With a small **crack,** they landed outside the wrought iron gates of Malfoy Manor. She slipped her hand from the crook of this elbow as he pushed open the gates and began his stroll down the gravelled path. She skipped to catch up as he pulled ahead, his long strides taking him further with causal ease. They walked (read: slightly jogged) down the drive in silence and by the time Hermione ran up the entryway steps behind Malfoy’s leisurely gait, the tension had grown thick between them again. He turned the iron knocker and pushed the huge oak door open before standing to the side, looking in.

Hermione paused in confusion, watching his profile, waiting for something to happen.

When nothing did, she leant forward, peering around the other half of the frame that was still closed. All she could see was a small section of the entryway before the shadows grew too thick.

“What are you doing Granger?”

Hermione started and looked up quickly to Malfoy, who stared down at her with narrow eyes.

“I was trying to see what you were waiting for,” she stated, her brow creasing as she searched his face.

His smirk quickly grew to a smile that took Hermione aback. She blinked at him, taking in the smile that could only be described as charming.

_What the…_

“I was waiting for you, Unspeakable Granger,” he said.

“Right,” she tore her gaze from the way his silver eyes glittered hypnotically with warmth and marched through the doorway. “Thanks,” she bit out. She heard him chuckle as he shut the door behind them. She came to a stop a few steps in and turned back.

“Which way?” she asked, her voice hushed in the oppressive silence of the space.

“Not far,” he said as he strolled past her, the picture of confidant ease.

They walked in uneasy silence through the hall before slipping down a corridor to the left of the grand staircase.

“Why did you become a Spook?” He said as they passed along a carpeted corridor with empty portrait lining the walls. She looked up at him. At first glance, he appeared calm - aloof even. The more she looked, however: his broad shoulder were tense, his shoulder blades stark against the slide of his shirt; where the cuffs of his sleeves were turned up slightly, she could see the cords of his forearms held in stark relief while his hands were buried deep into his pockets; while his mouth was posed into the hint of mirth, she could see the tension he held around his eyes as he looked down at her over his shoulder.

“Why do you ask?” she replied warily.

He popped his jaw before looking down at the floor and then ahead. “Just making conversation,” he murmured.

Hermione was about to respond when the corridor opened suddenly, drawing her attention. She remembered the towering cavernous ceiling from the Ministry raid. Malfoy continued smoothly through the second foyer, while she slowed to admire the same towering marble statue of a woman swathed in fine material that still stood in the centre looking down on them. Hermione held the statues unseeing eyes while the huge head slowly tracked her as she passed through the space beneath. She turned, unwilling to put her back to the eerie, mute sentinel that had now angled its shoulders to better follow her path. Something about the hulking silent figure that moved with quiet grace to watch them leave, set her teeth on edge.

“Hestia.”

Hermione whipped her head around so fast that a few curls loosened from her chignon. Malfoy had stopped walking at some point and had watched her back away from the statue.

“Daughter of Cronos and Rhea. Goddess of Hearth and Home,” he continued gently as he eyed her obvious reluctance to let the statue from her sight.

“Shall we?” He said as he gestured for her to go ahead of him down the next corridor.

“Why do you have a statue of a goddess from a muggle pantheon in your house? I thought this was a -”

“Purist’s home?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder at him. “Yes. I thought all things muggle offended you.”

“This hasn’t been a purist’s home for a long time,” he said, his eyes trailing the tapestry-lined walls of the corridor. “I don’t think it ever was,” he added, almost as if to himself.

Hermione threw him a pointed look over her shoulder. “Really,” she said sharply, “and how would you even begin to argue that Malfoy?”

His eyes met hers as he walked in her shadow.

“Just to your right.”

Hermione blinked, coming to a stop. “Pardon?”

Malfoy’s face remained stoically passive. “The library, it’s on your right Unspeakable Granger.”

Her gaze followed him as he came alongside the right of her and reached for the door. Instead of waiting for her, he walked straight through the frame, leaving it open for her to follow. She glanced back down the corridor toward the foyer; in the distance, she could see that Hestia had turned entirely to face them and was watching quietly from her plinth with a hunched form and a tilted head. Shaking shivers from her spine, Hermione ducked through the open door, quickly shutting it behind her.

As she turned taking in the room before her, she again lamented the elitist particulars of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Throughout many of the Ministry raids, she had witnessed the riches that they had coveted in their homes, hoarding knowledge like currency over the rest of wizarding society. She hadn’t been in the team who had taken on the Malfoy library the first time around, and she hadn’t overseen the hunt for the portraits the previous day. So as she took in the massive room that opened before her, she had to stop herself from giving an audible gasp. She could only see the parts of the room that was lit by the minimal light that what was afforded to her from tall windows that lay hidden between the aisles, leaving the furthest depths of the room shrouded in heavy shadows. The library was three tiers tall, mapped out by a matrix of walkways and staircases that led from one set of shelves to another. From her vantage point by the door, she spotted two seating areas, arranged with deep wingback chairs and luxurious sofas surrounding darkened fireplaces.

Malfoy stood a few paces ahead, watching her quietly.

“Where would you like to begin?” He said, his voice hushed in the quietude.

Hermione took a deep breath, filling her lungs with air that was scented with the distinct smell that is associated with the aged pages of books.

“Family journals.”

Malfoy nodded and headed up the nearest staircase.

“Aren’t there any lights?” she asked as she skipped up the steps behind him.

“You’re the one with the wand Granger,” Malfoy called back as he made his way across one of the walkways that crossed the other side of the room. With a small wince of contrition, Hermione pulled her wand from her holster.

“Incendio,” she muttered, aiming loosely for the shadowed fixtures above.

Suddenly, two enormous chandeliers blazed to life with hundreds of small flickering flames that glittered in the twinkling crystal. The effect was enchanting as the light from a hundred flames danced merrily in the prisms of the crystals, sending glittering flurries randomly across the room like the winking stars of the milky way.

 _Figures,_ she thought as she holstered her wand, rolling her eyes at the grandeur as she crossed the walkway that Malfoy had taken. She saw movement on the tier above and tensed, her hand twitching for her wand just as Malfoy’s white hair shone in the delicate firelight. He held a book in his hand aloft as he looked down to her.

“My grandfather’s journal,” he called. Hermione slipped up the narrow staircase at the end of the walkway, her booted feet echoing on the wooden structure. He handed her the leather-bound journal as she reached the landing.

“There’s more over this way,” he said as turned on his heel to disappear down a shadowed aisle. Hermione unravelled the leather string that bound the book and allowed the spine to fall open. She scanned the delicate calligraphy as she turned down the aisle that Malfoy has gone down and promptly walked into something solid.

She stumbled back, teetering off balance as the book fell from her hands, landing with **thwump** on the wooden floor. She felt hands quickly close around her forearms, pulling her upright with force, the momentum of which carried her straight back to the solid mass that she had bounced off in the first place. Hermione took a moment to collect her wits as her heart pounded in her chest and heat pooled in her cheeks. For as many hours of training and conditioning that she had been put through, simple mistakes born from distraction remained an unsolvable issue on too little sleep and too much caffeine. She felt the mass stutter against her cheek. She looked up from between the hair that had escaped her chignon and fallen across her eyes into Malfoy’s, who looked down at her with his tense gaze. 

Hermione watched, enthralled as flames from the crystal chandeliers refracted their bewitching, dancing lights into the quiet of the shadowed aisle. The world around her quivered, holding its breath like the very air she trapped in her beating chest as the scent of his spiced cologne wrapped around her senses. All thought and reason quietened in her mind; the hum truly silenced for the first time in a day as she stood in the arms of the man who she knew to hold her with little regard.

“Dear alluring Spook, effortlessly brilliant at everything,” Malfoy rumbled darkly, his mercury eyes flicking searchingly between hers, “until she has a book in her hands.”

Hermione’s brow creased slightly as she craned her neck to look up at him as he towered over her.

“If I didn’t know better,” she murmured as the warmth of his body seeped through her uniform, “I would have thought that a compliment.”

Malfoy’s long fingers tightened their hold briefly before they slipped down her forearms, leaving burning trails that bled through the leather in their wake as he stepped back. He bent down and hooked a long finger into the spine of the journal that had fallen splayed on the floor as she stood her ground, unwilling to concede.

“No Granger, just an observation,” he said, the frost in his voice crackled as he held the journal out for her to take.

Hermione’s fingers brushed against his as she took the book from him.

“So it seems I still know better then,” she stated, still looking up at him as she pushed her free hand through her hair, cajoling the stray tendrils of loose curls from her eyes.

Malfoy held her gaze a moment more, the lines of his face a perfect cut of apathy. “I should hope you do,” he said quietly before turning away. “Any particular family members you are after Unspeakable Granger?”

Hermione loosened her white-knuckle grip on the journal in her hand as she released a steady of held breath through her pursed lips. Malfoy looked over his shoulder to her, an elegant brow raised in question.

_Do not back down, not now,_ she thought as she met his eyes with her own deadened gaze.

“Any idea where there Veela falls in your bloodline?” She said, her words clipped with professionalism once more. Malfoy’s jaw popped as he turned back to the shelf, scanning the books before him.

“No, not really. Should be in here somewhere though,” he said as he pulled a journal from the shelf. “Shall we?” he asked as he turned back toward her. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek as he brushed past her and began to descend the stairs. She rolled her eyes heavenward as she realised he intended to sit in the lower seating areas, leaving the rest of the journals behind for them to continually run back and forth. She pulled her wand from her holster and with a short breath that blew a stray curl that had once again fallen into her eyes, raised her wand, ready for conduction.

“Locomotor journals,” she said, directing the magic to curl around the shelves of bound journals. One by one, they slipped from the shelves before they descended over the bannister of the walkway to the seating area below. Hermione saw Malfoy pay the journals that stacked infront of him only a seconds’ notice before he turned back to the pages before him. She looked down the vast expanse of the room, noting the numerous shelves burdened with books. Before she could think too much against her decision she raised her voice and called down.

“Elemental magic.”

Malfoy’s head snapped up; even from her perch on the top tier, she could see the way his eyes gleamed.

“There may be some further in towards the bestiaries,” he called back, placing the journal to the side of him.

Hermione gawked. “You have bestiaries? Why didn’t you say?!”

“Because you said you wanted to start with the family journals Granger,” he said with a loose gesture to the books that continued to neatly stack around the seating area.

“Oh for crying out loud Mal-”

“How about you come down here and get started on these while I go and get them?” He called as he walked away from her, disappearing between the aisles below. “Or would you like to continue your tantrum?” She heard his bodiless voice call from the shadows. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the stacks beneath as her fingers tightened their grip around her wand.

_No one would know…_

She hung her head briefly as she slackened her grip and holstered her wand.

“Don’t forget the Elemental magic!” She shouted, tipping her head in some approximation of the direction that he had travelled.

She slumped into a deep reading chair, sinking into the plush cushion below. She reached for the journal that was atop the closest pile to her as she flicked a careless hand toward the fire grate.

“Incendio,” she muttered as unwound the journal in her lap.

_Cassandra Malfoy née Burke: 1602 – 1732_

Hermione slipped into the woes of Cassandra Malfoy’s turbulent marriage to Brutus. Occasionally she would look up to see Malfoy – Draco – appear from between the stacks his arms full of huge books that he dropped down beside her, adding to the stacks of journals that littered the surrounding area. Every time she saw he return, she would think for a moment about offering her wand, but then he would turn away and the thought would slip from her mind and she would continue reading about Cassandra’s inane worries. By the time Malfoy had returned with the fifth stack, she threw Cassandra’s journal onto the table and pulled her wand from her holster.

“Oka fa’avasega tape le aso, senituri lona sefuluono,” she intoned wearily as she jerked her wand. Suddenly about fifty or so journals filtered from their respective piles and formed a new area over the end of the seating area.

“What was that?” Malfoy asked as he took a seat, eyeing the moving journals with suspicion.

“You great something or other Aunt Cassandra was a gossip and a society wife. If Brutus was a Veela I’m sure there would have been some mention of it in her drabble. Ergo-”

“The Veela was not in her time,” Malfoy finished, his eyes slipping over to the new pile of journals.

“They are all the journals written after the seventeenth century, no point in going through them,” she added with a shrug. She looked over at the piles that Malfoy had added. The nearest book was a tome, with thick casing and frayed edging. She heaved it onto her lap:

_Venari Fera Magicae_

“Hunting wild magic,” Hermione mumbled as she creaked open the cover. She took in the gilded thin pages, adorned with intricate calligraphy.

“Why Elemental magic?” Malfoy asked quietly. She looked up from the page to see his brow furrow as he scrutinised the page of an equally old tome in his lap, like the one she held in hers.

Hermione nibbled the inside of her lip, weighing her thoughts.

On the one hand, _it is about him…_ on the other, _can he be trusted with the knowledge of the extent of power?_

He looked up in that moment, his silver eyes searching hers with open curiosity.

“You,” she said, feeling a weight lift from her chest. “It’s you. I have a theory regarding your inheritance that I need to-”

“You think my inheritance has something to do with elemental magic?” He said, his brows rising high one forehead.

Hermione blew out a short breath. “Maybe, I don’t know yet.”

Malfoy looked at her a moment more before wordlessly turning back his book, his face set in deep concentration.

She sat back, her eyes roaming the room around her. She noted the minimal light from the windows had darkened somewhat.

“What happened to the portraits?” She asked as she closed the tome in her lap. Malfoy looked up again, his eyes tracking her movements.

“They grew tired of seeing their lineage and home be destroyed during the war so they created a habit of vacating their frames when things happened,” he said lowly. “Plausible deniability I think was a big motivation as well,” he added as cruel humour twisted his lips.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply when the gossamer waifs of the Irish Wolfhound Patronus caught her eye over his shoulder. Malfoy turned and tensed at the sight of the pearlescent figure as it sauntered behind him; Hermione watched the fingers that clutched the book in his lap darken and length as the talons grew forth.

“I’m ready when you are,” Tal’s voice said through the hound’s muzzle.

“Right,” Hermione said, her eyes flicking back to the diminished light that filtered through the windows. “Of course. I’ll be there in a moment. Where are you?”

“The Ministry,” Tal replied. “See you in five.”

Hermione turned to Malfoy. “I usually wouldn’t assume this, and I certainly don’t expect it, but you were always a good student regardless of everything,” she rushed as she stood, placing the tome back on the pile beside her. “Now that you know why, do you intend to keep researching?”

Malfoy raised a brow as he leant back in his seat, his long arm draped over the back of the sofa he sat on. “Why?”

Hermione huffed and pursed her lips. “Because obviously, I’d like to know what you find.”

The corner of his mouth curled into a dark smirk as his eyes flashed in the firelight. “We’ll see.”

She took a deep breath through her nose, her eyes rolling as she closed them in a moment of restraint.

“Is this a floo?” She said, gesturing to the fireplace. He nodded as pointed to the bowl that lay in the centre of the table. Hermione lifted the lid and grabbed a handful of the greyish powder.

She turned to Malfoy and faltered, her words dying on her lips. What could she say? The usual platitudes that came to mind felt forced.

“I’ll see you soon Mr Malfoy,” she said as she met his steady mercury gaze. He remained still a moment, to the point that Hermione thought he would ignore her once again, until he tipped his chin slightly, lowering his eyes.

“Be careful out there, Unspeakable Granger.”

She felt her lips part in surprise as her breath hitched. Unsure of how to respond, she swallowed heavily and span back toward the fire.

“Ministry of Magic,” she said with a barely even voice as she scattered it into the grate.

With the feeling of his heavy gaze upon her back, she disappeared into the green flames.

**_17:58 pm, 12_ ** **_ th _ ** **_of September -_ ** **_The Craigdarroch Inn, Loch Ness, Inverness, Scottish Highlands_ **

****

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?!”

Hermione brushed down her uniform as she stepped onto the cosy hearth of the Inn. She stepped aside for Tal to join her seconds later. He had been waiting for her at the Ministry floo network. They had shared a glance, sharing in unspoken terms, the way partners are want to do, that their day had been particularly annoying before they had stepped up to the nearest fireplace and flooed to Scotland.

Hermione frowned at the sound of raised voices as Tal scanned the area. They were in a greeting room furnished with cosy sofas and doilies. With another shared look, they slipped between the sofas and headed out into the hall, in search of the quarrel. As they entered the breakfast room, Hermione saw Harry leaning with his back against the window, looking as if he hadn’t slept for a week. Several people stood around the room, all adorned in varying shades of ministry issued regalia.

“Shit,” Tal muttered to the side of her. She glanced at him and followed his line of sight. Heller and Stoutly were stood with looks of equal contrition and frustration, facing a blustering red-faced Ronald Weasley.

“Don’t make me bloody repeat myself, under _WHOSE_ authority are you smarmy fucks here under?!”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her forehead where she felt the beginnings of headache appear.

_It was never meant to be like this…_

“They’re under mine, Ronald."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... how are we?
> 
> Kudos and comments let me know you're there. Theories and thoughts are cherished. 
> 
> Have a wonderful Christmas or holiday season!!! See you in the New Year!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at: https://thusatlas.tumblr.com/ for questions, casting and general inane nonsense.


	15. Acrasia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2021! I did promise you'd be seeing me in the new year.
> 
> I hope you all have had a wonderful holiday season my dears! Hello to all the new readers, lovely to have you here! 
> 
> Firstly, a huge thank you to Canttouchthis who had been working tirelessly this week to make this chapter coherent rather than a resemble something akin to a five-year-old's macaroni painting. I am forever grateful for her wonderful mind. If you're looking for a fantastic story to get your teeth into, please check out her Dramione WIP Finding Kallipolis which updates far more regularly than mine: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577627/chapters/67459354 I promise you, you will not regret it!
> 
> Secondly, Trigger Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence and blood/alcoholism - I can't think of any others but if you see anything that I've missed, usual rules apply - let me know!! Muchos love!
> 
> Without a further ado, I'm not gonna ramble too much here because I'm too busy laughing maniacally. ENJOY!

**_I cannot undo_ **

**_What I have done;_ **

**_I can’t un-sing_ **

**_A song that’s sung._ **

****

**_And the saddest thing_ **

**_About my regret –_ **

****

**_I can’t forgive me_ **

**_And you can’t forget._ **

\- _Lang Leau – A Betrayal_

**Chapter 15 – Acrasia**

* * *

* * *

**_17:37 pm, 12_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September, 1999 – Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, UK_ **

Draco’s gaze fell on the pot of floo powder as the flash of green flames burned still in his eyes.

_1...2…in_

He reached for one of the old battered tombs he had brought over for Granger; atop of the pile lay:

_Venari Fera Magicae_

Just underneath was:

_Divoká Mágia_

He slipped the second out from the pile and cracked open the cover to confirm his suspicion. He took in the swooping calligraphy on the aged pages that annotated the detailed sketches of olden alchemical instructions.

_3…4…out_

_Just another thing that is conveniently accepted_ ; acid dripped from his thoughts as he stared down at the page. Alchemy was a muggle practice that was adopted by magical folk centuries ago. It began as an early scientific hypothesis – to change the elements from one thing to another. The muggles believed that could create the allusive Philosopher’s Stone that would turn anything into gold.

Of course, this endeavour was short-sighted as they lacked the proper means, and so when magical folk got into the practice, they took it that one step further. Instead of seeking to change the atomic construct of an item to gold, they sought to change the fundamentals of existence.

Thus the birth of Flammel’s Philosopher’s Stone.

_1…2…in_

But all pureblood etiquette promulgated was the idea that anything that had so much of a hint of ‘muggle’ about it, should be besmirched, cast aside and looked down on.

_3…4…out_

And yet, here Draco sat, in his own family library with an alchemical script in this hand.

_1…2… in_

He breathed in deeply through his nose as he looked down at the tome in his lap, scenting the dust and age from the old pages.

Like oil seeping through water, a thread of nutmeg relit the fuse that he had been actively quashing since he had sent Hermione the owl that morning.

_3…4… out_

Draco’s sharpened talons pierced the aged leather of the cover as his grip tightened.

Granger had been so cold.

So distant.

It hadn’t taken Draco long to realise that she cared for him so little, she had barely risen to his antagonisms. She had been patient with him, cordial – polite even. He had realised that he had become one of her projects; one of her hopeless cases that she had been known for back at school.

And somehow this indifference was worse than the hatred he was used to. At least when she had despised him, she had cared on a personal level.

Albeit a toxic one.

_1…2…in_

The roiling tide of temper that he had kept at bay through constant maintenance of his occlumency wall lapped over the brim of its confinement. His claws pierced through the cover as his fangs poked the inside of his lip. He lowered his head, feeling the familiar itch in his shoulder blades.

_After all, this is what I wanted…right?_

Granger was truly a stranger.

By his design, they walked in entirely different worlds as he had always said. To her, he was her burden. To him, she was his keeper. His actions, his words that tainted the space between them had rang louder than ever as she had looked up to him. He had forever told her that they were different, that they walk in the different paths though that had never really been the case. That had just been ideals placed upon young impressionable minds. But in the moment where he knew that he intrinsically needed her, that had finally become true.

He was nothing to her but a task in her work-day.

_Which is good…right?_

_3…4…out_

He released a tremulous breath as the wall crumbled under the strength of the tide. He heard a tearing sound at his back and the air around him stirred as his hulking wings arched proudly above him.

_1…2…_

_This is what I wanted,_ he thought as his chest strained for breath. Her happiness _had_ to come first.

Even if that meant that she was a stranger.

_In._

Draco drowned in the tide of his temper as it overwhelmed him. Unable to hold it back anymore, he relinquished to its power; with a raw roar that tore from his throat, he snapped his arms forward, the tome still clutched between his claws and forcefully threw it towards the table in an effortless arch. It connected with the floo powder pot, knocking it over with a clatter. Draco lunged to his feet, his breath hissing between his teeth. With another guttural roar, he curled his fingers under the lip of the coffee table and lifted, flipping the oak with calamitous ease. He stumbled to his left, his feet knocking into one of the numerous piles he had made for Granger. Another wave of temper rose high and he raised his arm as if to conduct its crest. He reached deep within him and with a careless flick released it.

The books when flying.

Like a tumbling stack of dominoes, one by one they fell. The pages rustled, their covers clacked as they skittered across the wooden floor.

The cathartic release wanted more.

As the wave ebbed, preparing for another, Draco reached down deep and pulled it roughly forth. With fluctuant force, gales shot from his hand, whipping the now loose journals into a frenzy as they smashed into the remaining stacks.

His lips stretched slowly over his sharpened teeth in a sinister smile as he surveyed the scattered destruction. He casually flicked his finger as the last page settled, released another crest of the wave. The torrent of air jerked the journals violently across the floor, sending them careening into the nearby stacks. One by one, shelves fell from the force of the attack, adding more weight to the hurricane. With another wave cresting, Draco swooped his arm from low to high as he kicked at a lone book, sending it flying up into the higher tiers with the extra blow of magic behind it.

As the room settled and the crackle from the fire once more filled the silence, he pocketed his hands as he stretched his neck out from side to side as his wings settled against his back. He rumbled contently as he took in the destruction around him. He knew at some point, this would have to be dealt with, but for now, in this moment, he was not beholden by bars at his window nor would he be beholden to the expectations of a stranger who cared so little for him.

_A stranger who is still the Brightest Witch of the Age,_ he thought as he turned back toward the overturned table. He kicked aside journals and ruined books before he reached the mess of floo powder. He hooked a finger into the spine of the splayed _Divoká Mágia,_ and roughly beat the grey powder from the cover as he lifted it up. With only a touch of resentment for the hypocrisy the book symbolised, he tucked it under his arm.

_3…4…out_

Draco reached for the calm tundra within his mind, with its pristine snow and clear ice. He felt the creeping frost quell the roiling waves as his breath evened. He rolled his shoulders, revelling in their unburdened state when he felt the familiar _shnick_. He reached down and managed to grab a handful of floo powder from the floor. With vehemence, he threw the powder into the flames.

“Hyde Park Penthouse,” he growled as the flames consumed him.

Moments later, he stepped out onto the hearth. He looked up to see Theo walking across the living space, his attention focused on fastening the cuffs of his shirt.

“Ah good timing! Fancy a drink?” he asked nonchalantly as he locked the cufflink into place. “Blaise said we’ve got business at the club tonight and I was going to owl you to see if maybe you’re done with Granger? Thought you might be in need of some good ol’ hedonism.”

He finally looked up and started at the sight of Draco, stopping in his tracks. He slowly raised a brow as he took in Draco’s rumpled appearance and ruined clothes.

“Perhaps more than one drink then?” he offered pleasantly as his eyes narrowed, cataloguing the disarray.

Draco nodded shortly as he dropped the heavy tome onto the coffee table. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

Theo eyed him warily. “You are going to change first aren’t you?”

Draco tore open the shirt and peeled it from his shoulders as buttons clattered to the floor. He threw a smirk at Theo’s raised brows as he passed him.

“Give me five and I’ll be with you,” he said in a dark voice as he skipped up the stairs to prepare for the night ahead. 

**_18:00 pm, 12_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September - The Craigdarroch Inn, Loch Ness, Inverness, Scottish Highlands_ **

_“They’re under mine, Ronald.”_

Hermione looked into the furious blue eyes of her best friend and felt a wave of simmering calm wash over her. She had fought with Ron many times throughout her life; she was used to his blustering ways, his frustratingly bad timed short-sightedness and his dogged stubbornness. While she believed that these qualities leant Ron strength in the darkest of moments, they also had a tendency to kick into overdrive when the situation demanded an understanding ear.

“What do you mean they’re under yours ‘Mione?” He frowned at her as colour tinted high on his cheeks. “I’m glad you’re here by the way,” he added as an afterthought.

Tal snorted quietly to the side of her. She threw him a withering look before she stepped forward, into the centre of the room to lend solace to the lone Unspeakables who were stood centre of the disgruntled group of Ministry Officials.

“Well of course I’m here, even if this wasn’t something that we had a vested interest in understanding, I would have come anyway,” she said with a small smile to soften the blow of her caustic tone.

Offence had always been her best defence with him.

“It’s you!” She heard Harry say, and she turned to see him point in confusion at Tal who was crossing the room to join her in their united front. Tal offered Harry a careless salute and a grin.

“Mr Potter, pleasure to see you again.”

Harry’s mouth twitched in a confused half-smile as he turned his bemused look to Hermione. “He’s with you?”

“Yes,” she said gently. “Tal told me about what happened and we got your letters. We’ll talk about this after yeah?”

Harry’s brow furrowed slightly as his green eyes bounced between the two of them. She saw the moment he accepted the truth that was being laid before him - that she had been duping him all along; his mouth parted in a silent ‘oh’ and his arms crossed over his chest as his stance shifted to one of unconscious paternal disapproval that never failed to amuse and annoy Hermione.

But that was the lesser of the two issues at hand.

“Hang the fuck on!” Ron exclaimed. As Hermione turned back she met the eyes of Heller and Stoutly who each gave imperceptible nods, affirming silently that they were alright.

“No, ‘Mione’s a researcher!” Ron said, his eyes darting between Harry in the background to Daphne Greengrass who stood off to his left, to Hermione. “What are you doing ordering this lot around?!”

Hermione pursed her lips slightly as she assessed him. He was stressed, that much was obvious. Ron never did well with stress. He tended to lash out blindly without caring what he struck. She had two options: ‘Molly-coddle’ him - for lack of a better term, or brute force.

“That was the cover I was assigned when I joined the Department of Mysteries.”

_Brute force it is._

Ron’s mouth dropped in shock as his eyes widened.

“You lied…” he said, his voice deadened as his face whitened. The red blotches on his cheeks grew starker in contrast.

“Yes.” Hermione’s reply held a note of finality that seemed to resonate throughout the still room. It was as if all the gathered onlookers held their breath while they watched the unfolding drama.

Ron ran a rough hand through his hair as his piercing eyes swivelled to Heller and Stoutly who stood silently between Hermione and Tal.

“So you’re one of them,” he spat in accusation.

Hermione sighed. “Yes,” she replied through gritted teeth. Her temper, that had been simmering under the surface ever since she had stepped foot into Hyde Park, suddenly reared its head. She watched as Ron gathered his breath, his mouth set in a snarl, fists curled at his sides.

_In for the kill today apparently._

“Is there an interdepartmental issue here Mr Weasley?” Hermione said coldly.

Ron’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Yes, _Unspeakable Granger_ ,” he seethed. “Under whose authority are you here by?”

The corner of her mouth curled viciously. _You never should have taught me to play chess._

“Yours, Mr Weasley,” she said as she reached into her pocket. “I have your letter here asking for my assistance.”

Ron’s lips thinned to a sharp white line.

“Shit,” she heard someone who sounded like Harry mutter in the background.

“I shall repeat my question,” Hermione said darkly. “Is there, an interdepartmental issue?”

“You know what the fucking issue is Hermione,” Ron growled.

And she did. Like most of the Weasley clan, Ron had developed a deep distrust of the DoM following the whole prophecy business and Arthur’s attack back in fifth year. It had been Molly over that Christmas who had started the ball rolling as she had fussed over Arthur. She had questioned the loyalties of the DoM, citing that if the Department was as lock-and-key as they were meant to be, then surely Nagini – and thus Voldemort – shouldn’t have been able to get in.

It was beside the point that Molly happened to be accurate in her assessment of the department at the time, Tal was a testament to that fact. But the distrust had only remained and sunk further into Ron’s bones over the years, like many of his other deep-seated beliefs.

Evidence of his stubborn unwavering prejudices was the fact that he hadn’t spoken to Harry or Hermione for three weeks when he had found out what they had tried to do for Draco after his trial.

Hermione released a slow breath as she tried to clamp an iron fist over her roiling temper.

“Do you trust me?” she asked evenly.

Ron reared back, his fists grinding as he curled them tighter at his sides. The tendons on his neck stood taut, his frame tense as if ready to strike.

“You know I fucking do,” he hissed, his blue eyes blazing with cold fury.

“Then trust me now, we’re here to help.” She searched his face, noting each twitch of tension, each flash of a snarl that threatened to break across his lips. She watched the internal struggle play out across his features. His eyes skirted over to Daphne and Hannah who were stood to his left before returning back to Hermione. Slowly and deliberately, Ron tipped his chin, nodding his reluctant assent.

It seemed as though everyone in the room breathed a sigh of relief with Hermione in that moment.

“Don’t think that we’re not gonna talk about this, because you know we fucking are,” Ron said as he pointed an accusing finger at her.

“Good, we have a lot to discuss,” she replied curtly.

He held her eyes a moment more, his posture was tense as he towered above her before he raised his gaze to the others gathered around the room.

“Where were we…” he said to himself as he noted all in attendance. “Right, Selwyn yes. You’re heading Overwatch tonight.” His gaze flicked back to Hermione, eyeing her warily. “Who are these two?” he said with an innocuous gesture to the Unspeakables nestled between her and Tal.

“This is Heller,” she said pointing to the tall, blonde woman who fixed Ron with a calculating look. “And this is Stoutly.” The shorter, darker man flipped a lazy salute over his cheeky grin.

Ron huffed. “They good?”

Hermione raised a brow. “Of course.”

A sudden look of sucking on something sour affected Ron’s face as he assessed the two Unspeakables once again.

“Are either of them good at spotting or tracking?”

Tal snorted quietly as Heller spoke in her crisp, soft palette. “That would be me.”

Ron raised his own brow questioningly at Hermione, who nodded in agreement with Heller’s assessment.

After all, she knew firsthand the intuitive way in which Heller tracked. Enola Heller was the first of her cohort to make her way successfully through the chambers. Not long after Heller had graduated, Hermione had strayed far off-piste in the Timor Tunnels; she had dropped in right on top of Inverno, frightening both of them. She hadn’t had time to pull out the cherries before she’d had to turn tail and sprint through the labyrinth, winding further and further in whilst trying to lose the seething Nightmare. 

Heller had come after her and had tracked her through the labyrinth; it had taken her three hours and forty-five minutes in total. Since then, Hermione had grown accustomed to Heller’s aloofness. The blonde was never comfortable being in the light, nor being centre-stage. She also tended to look at Hermione like she was a liability.

Which Hermione supposed to Heller she was – she had been rescued by the tracker a further four more times. The final time had again been in the Timor Tunnels and Heller’s reserved nature had finally snapped when she muttered a quiet: _‘for fuck’s sake’._

Hermione had picked up the compass the next day from Tin’s archives in the warehouse, so she would never get lost in the tunnels again.

“Right,” Ron said to Heller. “You’re with Selwyn on Overwatch. And you?” he said, turning to Stoutly who shrugged.

Conrad Stoutly was a sharpshooter with both magical and muggle means – and had a serious penchant for IPAs.

But no-one wanted to offer that information (read: old habits die hard).

“I could use a hand actually,” Hannah said stepping forward. She shot Hermione a warm smile before turning to Stoutly. “Any good with animals? The Merpeople tried to start another revolution today and we could definitely use another pair of hands on the Ashrays.”

“Sounds good to me,” Stoutly said with an easy smile that Hannah returned.

“What about you?” Ron said to Tal who smirked whilst running a hand through his long, ragged hair.

“Oh I’m pretty good as a general hand.” As Tal said this, his gaze flicked over to Hermione in silent communion.

_Divide and gather intel._

“Is there a base camp? I’m guessing there’s more people around than there are rooms in this Inn?” Hermione said as she catalogued the faces around the room. Every face was a familiar set of exhaustion and strain amid the obvious curiosity they all held for the arrival of the Unspeakables. Whatever had been happening up here, it had been a tireless effort, Hermione reasoned. She would get Ron and Harry’s assessment, but Tal would get in amongst the gathered crowd, seeking out the information that would be deemed unimportant by management – which Hermione deduced in this instance, was Ron, considering he was handing out the orders.

“There is a camp, yes,” Daphne said, eyeing Tal with suspicion. “I need to make the rounds for the evening.”

Hermione made an effort to smooth the grimace that appeared on her face at Daphne’s all too familiar tone. While she hadn’t been quite as forthcoming in her bitchiness as Pansy Parkinson, nor as obvious in her violence as Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne had perfected the art of making one feel inferior for even daring to breathe the same air as her, with as little as a single look.

It was the same look she wore as she addressed Tal, whose smirk widened to a grin as he clocked her subtle attack.

“Rounds sound positively delightful lass,” he said, leaning into his Yorkshire accent to thicken it. “I’m a right good skivvy, me.”

Hermione strained to stop her eyes from rolling.

Daphne’s perfect brow rose.

“Good.” Was all she said, giving Tal a final withering look before she turned to Ron. “Shall we?”

Ron sighed as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. Hermione noted quietly with mild approval, that in the months that he had been trailing the country for the World Cup, the exercise and sun had done him wonders.

“Yeah, everyone’s dismissed. If you don’t know where you’re meant to be, find Hannah or Daphne,” he called out to the dispersing group. His eyes flicked between Tal and Daphne.

“You gonna be alright?” he asked quietly as Daphne stepped closer to the Unspeakable group. To Hermione’s surprise, she saw the haughty veneer melt into a soft smile.

“Of course, I’ve handled worse.”

Stoutly flicked a wave to Hermione as he stepped into line with Hannah while Heller simply disappeared into Selwyn’s group as they exited the room.

_Forever the rogue,_ she thought with a sigh as she turned to Tal with a pointed look. He simply shrugged nonchalantly and grinned wider. While a larger part of her wanted to implore him to be on his best behaviour considering the fraught interdepartmental tension; the smaller devil in her took another look at Daphne and decided that in the long run, she probably could handle Tal – but it wouldn’t hurt for him to be his most arsy self in the meantime. She dismissed him with a tilt of her chin and watched him slip into Daphne’s shadow after her muttered conversation with Ron had finished.

As the last pair of boots exited the room, leaving Ron, Harry and Hermione alone in the Breakfast Room, a short elderly woman in a floral pini and a wide kind face, bumbled in.

“All sorted dear?” she said in a soft Highland brogue.

“Can we get some coffee please Mrs McNealy?” Ron said, scratching the back of his head, mussing his hair. “Oh and this is Hermione, she’s gonna be around.”

Hermione offered a bemused smile to the warm lady.

“Oh lovely to have you, the more the merrier. Coffee coming right up dear!” she called over her shoulder as she bustled from the room, her curly white hair bobbing.

As a heavy quiet settled upon the room, Harry stepped forward and slung an arm around Hermione’s shoulders, pulling her in to place a kiss upon her temple.

“Missed you,” he muttered into her hairline as she leant into his embrace.

“Missed you too,” she mumbled back.

“Yeah well, I missed the pair of you, but don’t fucking mind me now eh?” Ron cut in exasperatedly.

“We’ve already had our moment, don’t be greedy,” Harry chirped with a grin in his voice. Hermione looked up to see Ron’s hesitant smile.

“We doing this before or after the difficult part?” she asked.

“Before Hermione, always before, I might be too mad at you after,” Ron said, opening his arms. She stepped into them, her arms circling his waist and leant her head against his chest. Underneath the smell of mud and sweat, there lingered the smell of him that she cherished. He placed a soft kiss atop of her head before he pulled away to greet Mrs McNealy who had re-entered the room.

“I’ll just pop it down here dearies.” She lowered her wand to settle the floating tray on a large table situated in a bay window. “Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll just be in the kitchen with the others prepping tomorrow’s food.”

The trio chorused their ‘thanks’ to her retreating form as they settled into their seats; Hermione manoeuvred the boys so as to take the seat that had the full view of the door and the room, whilst also being able to see out of the majority of the window.

The sun had set beyond the rising mountains that surrounded the Loch, casting the outside into a sombre twilight that was interrupted by flares of magic and firelight. She could see in the distance, the ghostly silhouettes of the Ashrays as they leapt from the water, closely followed by the spark of a wand that would release a golden net to catch them before they could reach dry land. As far as she looked, make-shift tents had been erected of varying shapes and sizes. The variety was ironically reminiscent to that she saw at the Quidditch Worldcup back in fourth year. She could see the moving shadows of people darting between the tents, ducking through the flaps or sitting down by the fires that lit their entrances.

“How many people are here?” she asked as she watched a new group run toward the lake to help with the large amount of Ashrays who had suddenly become airborne.

“About hundred and fifty-odd so far, not counting the new ones that arrived today from the Edinburgh office,” Ron said as he blew on his freshly poured coffee. Harry placed a steaming mug infront of her with a small smile that she returned.

“Since the last we spoke about it, have you managed to get some kip?” Harry said, as he took up his own cup. Ron tore his eyes away from the Loch to look curiously between them.

Hermione blew gently on the rising steam from her coffee and watched as the ripples travelled across the darkened surface. “That was three days ago,” she said quietly before taking a sip.

Harry started. “It wasn’t three days ago,” he said confidently before he paused, looking off to the side as he ran the calculation in his head. His brows rose in impotent surprise as he came to his conclusion. “Huh, seems like it was ages ago.”

Hermione nodded as she placed the mug back down on the table.

“So have you slept?” Harry continued.

The corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched. “I’ve caught a couple of cat-naps here and there.”

“After this, straight to bed young lady,” Harry said in a serious tone. Hermione took a breath to reply but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I don’t want to hear it. I’ll find the other one, the bloke -”

“Taliesin,” Hermione supplied.

“Him,” Harry agreed with an openhanded gesture. “I’ll go save Greengrass from him whilst you get some shut-eye. I’m serious ‘Mione.”

“More like save him from Daphne,” Ron snorted, his eyes crinkling as he flashed a grin before taking another sip from his mug.

Hermione raised her brow at Harry, a smile threatening on her lips. Harry smirked and rolled his eyes.

“He hasn’t realised yet,” he said with endearing humour in his voice. Hermione laughed quietly as Ron flicked his middle finger at a chuckling Harry.

“Fuck off,” he grumbled as he set his cup down. “We’ve got more serious things to discuss, like why Hermione decided to join the Dark Side and didn’t even bother to send us an owl as a heads up.” He leant back in his chair and slung his arm over the back, opening his chest as he pinned her with a searing look of accusation.

Hermione puffed a breath between her parted lips as her eyes drifted out the window once more. Up and down the banks of the Loch, Ashrays were flying. In the glow of the witchlights and spells, she could see the shining scales of the Merpeople as they pulled the Ashrays from the magical nets, back into the water.

“What is going on out there?” she asked with a frown.

“Ashrays aren’t as intelligent as the other creatures,” Ron said curtly. “They react on instinct alone. And while the Merpeople are trying to start a revolution, even they know mass Ashray suicide isn’t the way forward.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his unshaven cheeks. “It’s about the only thing that’s keeping them from weaponising the Naga I think.”

Hermione snapped back to look at him in alarm. “That’s a concern?”

“It’s my bloody concern because they keep saying it. Hannah’s not too fussed though. She bloody plays with the things. Says that they’re like vegetarian puppies…” he paused and grimaced.

“Except with scales and big teeth?” Harry added unhelpfully with a grin.

Ron threw him a disparaging look. “Mate you have no idea, the fucking things, they - ”

He stopped suddenly and switched back to Hermione, his features sharpening. “You were saying?”

Harry caught Hermione’s eye and shrugged helplessly.

Hermione sighed quietly and sipped her coffee.

“I was recruited after I finished my NEWTs,” she began, her eyes drifting out the window again to watch the chaos outside. “Shacklebolt and my now boss came to meet with Minerva. She introduced us.”

“ _What?!_ ” Ron snapped, “You’re telling me McGonago-”

“Let her finish mate,” Harry said firmly but calmly, quelling Ron’s rant before it gathered steam.

“Yes, Minerva knew. It’s all above board. I started training at the Department of Mysteries the day I arrived back in London.”

“What was the training like?” Harry asked, his eyes wide and eager.

“Let her finish mate,” Ron grumbled darkly.

Harry raised his brow at Ron who threw a pointed look in return.

“The training was…hard,” Hermione continued, ignoring the two. “But that’s a story for a different day.”

“Brief overview?” Harry asked, ignoring Ron’s tut.

Hermione spun her cup idly as she gathered her thoughts. “Well I wasn’t wholly lying about the research, that is a big part of the job. In fact, it’s actually all of the job.”

“So why all the cloak and dagger then?” Ron frowned accusingly.

“Because of the nature of the things we research,” she said simply. “You have this idea that research is being stuck in a library, being surrounded by dusty books and writing reams and reams of parchment – but that’s not always the case, as you know! You’ve been researching this year for a location haven’t you?”

Ron sucked his tooth and nodded reluctantly.

“The things we research and investigate are things that aren’t necessarily found in libraries. Something happens within the world that cannot be explained through usual means, we go in and investigate and research.”

Ron huffed, “I still don’t understand why all the secrets?”

“Because we’re not just looking for a location for a stadium or a murder,” she said, gesturing to Harry. “It’s things like the nature of magic itself, the fabric of reality, the weaving of time. Things that _cannot_ fall into the wrong hands. You saw what Voldemort did with just the knowledge of knowing that the prophecy existed! He didn’t even hear the whole bloody thing!” Hermione took an unsteady breath in as she felt fire course through her veins. “I get that you’re hurt that I didn’t tell you, but this is bigger. I couldn’t tell you. The only way that I can tell you now, the only way I would have been able to tell you was if I happened to end up working with either of you,” she said as she brushed hair from her eyes. “I checked.”

Quiet fell as Hermione’s speech sunk in. Harry’s green eyes met her across the table.

“I get it,” was all he said.

“I don’t,” Ron grumbled.

Hermione sighed, “What aren’t you getting?”

“They’re bad news Hermione,” Ron said exasperatedly. “Why would you even go to work there in the first place?”

Hermione took another unsteady breath as she felt a pulse in her temper. “Timor Lupus Est.”

There was a pause before Ron turned to Harry. “I think she’s actually lost it.”

“Fear of the Wolf,” she said, ignoring his gibe. “Way back when, when the Romans were crossing Europe and Asia, they had a phrase – ‘Timor Lupus Est’. It was the reason why nightriders and night marches were so loathed. All they had to go by was the light of their fire, and sometimes not even that. So outside of the circle of light was just the darkness of the wilderness where there would sometimes be wolves waiting. It was such a regular phenomenon for soldiers to be dragged from the road or taken unawares by a wolf pack, that the whole symbolism surrounded wolves started, evolving into all manner of ghouls and monsters that muggles believe lurk in the dark – regardless of the fact that some of them are true.” She took a sip of her drink and met Ron’s eyes. “Timor Lupus Est is the term for the shared quality amongst every intelligent being on the planet – fear of the unknown. It is natural for a being of intelligence to want to understand. And so when they don’t, either through a lack of means resulting in ignorance or a lack of knowledge that is being purposefully kept from them, their imagination creates a monster to protect them. To keep them from straying into the dark and being hunted by wolves. It’s basic survival.” 

Her gaze flicked out the window, noting the continued mayhem on the banks before she returned to Ron. “Just because your imagination is saying there is a monster in the dark, doesn’t mean there is one. What it does mean, is that you do not have enough information to say there isn’t.” She leant forward, bracing her arms on the table as she kept his gaze. “Information has been kept from you. You are not obliged to know that information. It is being kept from you for very good reasons. That does not mean that we are monsters out to get you. We don’t even consider you personally into the equation. It just means that you don’t know.”

A crease formed between Ron’s brow as he stared her down.

“I do however,” Hermione continued, “appreciate that the only knowledge you possess of the Department comes from being chased by Death Eaters or your father. I can sit here and tell you how there has been a huge overhaul of the staff and all the trials and tribulations, however, I don’t think I would do it any justice, nor would I be able to answer any questions if you had any. So what I’ll do is I’ll speak to Tal. He was there during that time. He lived it. I’ll ask him to speak to you and answer any questions you have. Sound good?”

Ron’s unwavering blue gaze held her in his stare as his jaw popped at the side. She could see the gears turning behind his eyes as he formulated a strategy in his mind.

_This_ Ron, the one who saw the world as a chess game and him the Master of his board, she could deal with

_This_ Ron, she would make all the time in the world for.

After a minute, he slowly swiped a thumb across his bottom lip before he reached for his mug.

“I look forward to that chat,” he said grimly before he took a generous swig.

Hermione leant back, spreading her hands wide on the table.

“In the meantime, what’s happening here?” she asked, gesturing with her head out of the window.

Ron blew out all the air from his lungs, puffing out his cheek and fluffing a tuft of his too long fringe that had fallen into his eyes.

“So you know we were searching for a location for the stadium?” he asked. Hermione nodded. “Well, we found it, isn’t it lovely?” he lifted his mug in mocking salute to the darkened world outside of the bay windows.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said, her eyes flicking to Harry. He gestured back to Ron in a _‘he’ll get to the point eventually’_ look.

“Yetis and Centaurs are at war, just over that ridge because it was foretold in the stars that they would be,” Ron stated dryly. “So the Yeti travelled hundreds of fucking miles, away from where they were safe I might add, to fight the Centaur, who went out of their way to meet the Yeti at this location because it was foretold that each side would attack eachother.” He widened his eyes as he emphatically gestured out the window with his large hand waving in the air. “Do you _see_ the fucking lunacy of that? And now I’ve got stropping Nagas, rebellious Merpeople – and those are the intelligent ones! I’ve got suicidal Ashray, a White Stag who keeps trying to sneakily impale everyone and so on. I’m also up to my eyeballs in Ministry officials and it feels like we’re just plugging our fingers in a leaky bucket. There’s fuck all we can do about the Yeti and Centaur. We tried, nearly got some sort of diplomacy going and then boom! The leader of the Yeti, their Salun – Kunchen – poof! Missing! And that just kicked everything off.” He shook his head, looking truly exhausted in the warm light of the Breakfast Room. “It’s a fucking bloodbath and we’re just trying to keep it contained. It’s fucking horrific. They’re gonna kill each other over some fucking backwards Divination.”

“A coincidence,” Hermione said quietly.

Ron snorted, “Divination was just a coincidence to us, but Daph is quite good at it. This feels too...” he trailed off, his eyes searching the darkness outside, “orchestrated. Like someone has taken two ends of some thread and tied a bad knot to make it try and make sense.”

Hermione shifted in her seat as unease tripped up her spine.

“This Kunchen, the Salun, went missing on the tenth?” Hermione asked, peeking at Ron from the corner of her eye. She saw Harry’s attention snap on to her.

_Always a Bloodhound._

Ron nodded, “That’s right.”

“What do you know?” Harry asked her. His question wasn’t accusatory, though it held a strength that demanded answers.

Hermione looked between them and then down to the grains in the table.

“I appreciate on the back of my earlier speech, this is going to sound bad, but I’m not sure what I know,” she said, her brow creasing into a frown.

Ron huffed derisively. “Or is it that you just won’t tell us?”

Hermione tutted at him. “No, it’s that we don’t know for certain what’s going on. We’re looking into it – _researching_ ,” she added pointedly at Ron, who rolled his eyes. “At the minute we have a series of coincidences that are tying into disappearances.”

“The Selkie?” Harry said suddenly, perking up as if alerted.

“There’s a Selkie now?” Ron said, his voice getting higher with each word.

“Yeah, she’s Nott’s friend I think, she and her horse have gone missing somewhere around the eighth,” Harry said absently before turning back to Hermione. “You said disappearances, plural, who else?”

While at the same time, Ron said, “Nott’s friends with a Selkie?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, his eyes still fixed on Hermione who winced as she realised the heading of the conversation.

Ron wet his lips, frowning, “As in, Theodore Nott?”

“Yeah, why are you-”

“How do you know Nott’s friends with a Selkie Harry?”

Harry blinked as his mouth shaped into a perfectly round ‘O’. His green eyes widened imploringly to Hermione.

She took a sip of her coffee and judged the level of warning in Ron’s voice to be credible.

“When did you and pureblood princess Daphne Greengrass get close Ron?” she asked casually.

Colour pricked his cheeks as he suddenly leant back in his seat. “That is not the same! Daph isn’t a Death Eater for starters!”

“Neither was Nott I seem to remember?” Hermione said, turning questioningly to Harry for confirmation, who nodded. She noted the unfamiliar caged look in his eye and the way that he had taken to picking at his thumb – a nervous habit when he felt cornered that she had noticed all those years ago when he would lie about doing his homework.

Ron looked between the two of them, his brow slowly rising on his forehead.

“Right,” he huffed as he leant back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Right okay, Harry’s friends with Theodore Nott. Okay sure.”

“You don’t sound sure mate,” Harry commented cautiously.

“Of course I’m not bloody sure, but fine, we’re in this moment, there are fucking glowing fish trying to commit mass suicide in front of me, it’s really not the strangest thing I’ve heard this week,” Ron spoke with defensive aggression as the muscles of his arms strained against his shirt from how tightly he had folded them. He turned to Hermione who was watching the lake outside, “You keeping any Slytherins in your pile of secrets over there?”

Movement out the window caught her eye and Hermione turned to see a particularly large group of Ashrays rise from the inky waters like wailing spirits, only to be ensnared in the gold ribbons of the netting. The sight was chaotically beautiful and unerringly sad.

“Well I am seeing Malfoy,” she said distractedly, as she tracked their descent.

She saw multiple arms rise from the waters to reach up for the gold webbing; the luminescence ominously reflected on the green scales of the Merpeople. Gently they unravelled the netting, catching the ghostly Ashrays one by one before lowering them back into the inky water.

All for the tiresome process to be repeated moments later.

“I can’t fucking believe this.”

Hermione turned, suddenly alert to the dangerous note in Ron’s voice. She met Harry’s gaze first, who was just blinking owlishly at her. Next, she turned to Ron who was vibrating with a fury unlike she had ever seen.

“What?” she said, lost on what could have possibly caused their reactions.

“You’re seeing _Malfoy_? When have you had time to do that?! How?!” Harry said disbelievingly. “What?” he finished lamely.

Hermione blinked.

She groaned and lowered her head to her hands.

“No, I have seen him, not, I am not seeing him,” she raised her head again and offered them a hopeless smile. “Slip of the tongue, sorry. I saw him earlier. So I mean, technically I did see him-”

“’Mione,” Ron cut in, still somewhat sharp from his anger, “you’re beginning to ramble and I’m sorry but I can only take so much weirdness from you per year and I think that ‘slip of the tongue’ took the cake,” he said, curling quote marks in the air.

Hermione ignored his snark and reached back to pull the fastener from her hair. She relished in the exquisite relief of freedom as the wild length tumbled over her shoulders.

“I’m just tired,” she said as she fluffed the stiff roots with her fingers. “If anything you should be more shocked at yourselves for believing that I would be that way inclined to Malfoy of all people.”

She had a sudden flash of mercury looking down at her over high cheekbones, the echo of spiced cologne, the burning trails of fingertips as they slipped down her arm.

She swallowed heavily.

“Honestly you two,” she admonished as she settled back into the seat, “did you ever hear something so ridiculous?”

Ron seemed to think on this point before he tipped his head in acquiescence. “Fair point.”

“So wait, okay, fine,” Harry said, still frowning, “But you saw Malfoy after his release? How is he? Is what the Prophet said, true?” he paused a moment before his eyes narrowed. “You said you were researching the disappearances, is he connected?” He leant back suddenly, his eyes widening, “did he do them?!” he added incredulously.

Hermione shot him a sardonic look. “How on earth do you think he could have done anything when he’s only just been released?”

“Because it’s Malfoy, he probably had minions running around like…oh I dunno,” Ron said before fixing Harry a look, “like Nott maybe? I dunno just guessing.” He tapped the tip of his chin.

“Or like Daphne?” Harry shot back.

“He’s not the mastermind, he’s a victim I think,” Hermione said wearily as she rubbed her temple in an attempt to soothe the fire that burned under her skin.

Ron scoffed, “Sure, okay, Malfoy’s a victim, and fucking belie-”

“And what would you know Ronald?” Hermione snapped, her hair whipping wildly as she faced him. “You’ve been here dealing with this. This case is too complicated for your prejudices, so if you have nothing helpful to add, be quiet.”

The silence that followed was heavy with accusation.

Ron frowned at her, his lips thin, his eyes alight with cold fury once more.

“So you’re defending him again,” Ron said in a dangerously quiet voice.

“Yes,” she replied with finality. She looked between the two, noting their differences. They had grown up so much in the two short years since leaving Hogwarts, both of them were now sporting varying lengths of unshaven stubble, their eyes tired with exhaustion; their faces had lost the last of the childhood softness, sharpening their features. Harry was watching her with curiosity that was covered by a slight crease of worry in his brow; Ron refused to meet her eyes as he stared out the window, his frame taut with tension.

Hermione released a breath and drummed her nails against the tabletop. Harry would be amenable to a conversation, but Ron was too far gone for the moment. He would need time to process, he’d need time to figure out how best to handle the new information – which she rationalised, would be rather hard considering the pressure he was already under.

But she could give him time.

“Find Tal,” she said to Harry. “Tell him what we spoke about here. Get him to tell you about the other disappearance and the theory on how Malfoy fits into it. I’m going to grab some sleep.”

Harry nodded. “You can take my room, I managed to grab the last room in the eaves. Go straight up, Number Twenty-One.”

Hermione stood from the table and paused as she passed Ron. “I’ll answer your questions when you’re ready to talk.”

Ron’s jaw popped before he nodded slowly, still refusing to meet her eyes. Hermione stepped away from the table and paused once again.

“Harry, speak to Tal about Robards.”

Harry whipped his head around so fast that his glasses slipped slightly down his nose.

“He was there in the DMLE,” he said cautiously as if trying to work out why.

Hermione nodded. “Yeah, ask him why.”

Understanding dawned on Harry’s face. “Because the Department of Mysteries knows that Robards and by extension the DMLE, is rotten?”

Hermione laughed humourlessly, “yes exactly that. He knows the details and could use any insight you have.”

A feral smile spread across Harry’s face, “will do.”

With a final look to the back of Ron, she tipped her head in parting to Harry and left the room. She skipped up the stairs, grimacing slightly at the delicate cottage-style décor. She dodged a sleepy official who exited their room as she slipped down the hall to bee-line for Number Twenty-One. With a wand tap, she unlocked the door and slipped into the darkened space. Without removing any layers of her soft leather armour, or the boots that covered her feet, she fell onto the bed. She just managed to slip a blanket over her shoulder when exhaustion won the battle against the caffeine that coursed through her veins, and she finally succumbed to sleep.

**_22:31pm, 12_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September, 1999 – Soteria, Soho, London, UK_ **

Draco took a small sip of his whiskey as he tracked the hypnotic sway of the dancer’s hips. The woman on the podium was clad in a golden slip that seemed to be covering the peaks of her nipples and crest of her arse through nothing but sheer will.

He had been pleasantly surprised as he had descended Soteria. When he had heard of the club, he hadn’t known what to expect. But as he looked around at the artful blend of classic gothic architecture and modern colourful minimalism, he knew he shouldn’t have been quite so surprised that Blaise was as good of an interior designer as he was a fashionista.

The woman dipped down low, her eyes flashing in the low light as they locked with his. Her lips tilted into an inviting smile and she bounced on her heels, spreading her legs wide before slowly straightening again. Draco watched her painted nails trail up her long legs as he took another sip.

The same way Granger’s fingers had curled around his arms.

He breathed deeply through his nose, quelling the sudden rise of fire that rose in his chest. _Wouldn’t do good to start blowing things up here with the muggles,_ he thought as his gaze slid over the writhing crowd.

Theo had deposited him at the bar whilst he went back to Blaise’s office to meet some client. He had just gotten his first whiskey when Pansy had appeared, her outfit cut a sharp, dark silhouette against the backdrop of the ritz and glitter from the patrons. She had quickly leant in to leave a rouge kiss on his cheek before she had slipped by and disappeared through the door that led to the back.

That had been an hour ago.

Draco had had a few more whiskeys since, but he was loath to realise, it just wasn’t quite hitting the same. He was buzzed, that much was certain. But he was also sure that he could still walk in a straight line.

Which was not the way that he wanted to be.

He tapped his glass against the bar behind him and waited for it to be lifted from his hands. The bartender, Julien had taken one look at Draco and had kept his glass filled for that past couple hours, no questions asked.

His fingers curled around the new tumbler that was placed back in his hands. Draco lifted it to see the deep hue of amber flash in the lights of the club.

Like the way Granger’s eyes had flashed as she had met his verbal spar: _“so it seems I still know better then.”_ Though her words had held frozen malcontent, for a moment - just for one moment - her eyes had sparked alight instead of holding their usually dull visage whenever they looked upon him.

The moment he had heard her voice in Hyde Park, he had had to stop to catch his breath. The sudden urge to run to her had been overwhelming.

And it had gotten worse the closer he had come to her.

Granger had been so closed off from him that it had felt like they were sat miles apart – rather than on opposite chairs. Every time she had spoken, it was like her voice had pulled at something deep within him. He had occluded as hard as he used to when the Dark Lord had lived in the Manor, so as to stop himself from feeling the hollow crevasse that was widening in his chest.

The last straw had been when he had held her.

For that moment, his walls had come crashing down and he had _felt_.

Apologies had scrambled up his throat as he had felt every regret.

And as she had looked up to him, the urge within him to take her had been so strong that it had taken his breath away once again. For her sake, he had occluded so fast that it had physically hurt; he slammed it all in the small cell with an iron door.

But for a moment…

For a moment he had tasted happiness.

Draco lifted the glass to his lips and shot back the contents. He pulled his lips over his teeth and inhaled with a hiss at the burn as he placed his glass back on the counter. As he felt it being lifted from his hand, he half turned his head over his shoulder to make eye contact with a startled Julian.

“Vodka from now on,” he said, his voice was gravelly from the burn. Julian tipped his head as he took the glass.

The ice crinkled up the chasm in his chest as he took a shuddering breath. He tightened his hand that hung loosely over the side of the bar into a fist and laughed humorlessly to himself.

There really was no point.

He had already known she would, but the moment when Granger had reaffirmed her beliefs of him had been the rejection that the Veela within him couldn’t take. Somewhere, deep, deep down, there had been a glimmer, a small hope that maybe, somehow, it would be fine _. Maybe she’d suddenly lose her memory._ As cold and as distant as she had been with him, Draco had wondered if maybe they were actually strangers. He had tried to bait her, tried to poke her but she hadn’t really bitten. Because if they were strangers then maybe there wouldn’t be all that history between them…

_Right?_

He swallowed thickly as he felt another rise of his magic and a pang of sombre pain echoed in his chest.

_What happens to a mate-less Veela I wonder?_

His mother had spoken of his grandfather but that was a bonded Veela who had then lost his mate. He didn’t know if the rules were different if one just simply didn’t bond. He thought back to the books he had thrown around the library and grimaced. He’d have to sort through that tomorrow. Regardless of his situation, Granger was right, he did need to know about his magic and his inheritance.

Draco looked around the room and watched as people danced with abandon to the thundering beat.

He needed something. An outlet for this roiling storm within him. He entertained the idea of finding someone to fuck – _after all, what better way to get over a rejection -_ but the more he scoured the room for a potential lay, the more he was turned off by the idea.

He looked at the bodies around him abstractly and realised that he felt no connection to any of them. It was a strange realisation. It was akin to his feeling in sixth year, as he had walked amongst the Hogwarts students carrying the Dark Mark and the knowledge of his mission. But somehow this was worse. He had felt it with Theo on the way into the club but hadn’t paid much mind to it. It wasn’t that he knew he was different from them by way of the fact that he was a creature. It was more that there was a severance between him and them. He objectively liked Theo, there was too much history there not too. But as he looked around the room, Draco realised he was lacking that intrinsic, instinctive connection – the type you only notice when it is gone.

He just didn’t care.

He chewed on this thought, unsettled by the apathy for the people around him. And then he thought of Granger.

_There it is._

It wasn’t that he had severed all instinctive ties to the world around him, it was just that he only had one point left to anchor him.

And she had rejected him.

In an attempt to distract himself from slipping further into his thoughts, Draco absently turned back to the dancer. She was now performing an impressive feat of flexibility in her towering heels and he once again marvelled at the steadfastness of the flimsy slip that covered her.

_Must be a sticking charm._

Draco’s analysis of the gold slip’s physics was interrupted by somebody knocking into him from his left. He snapped forward with quick reflexes to catch the falling body before they stumbled further into the crowd. The man righted himself and turned unevenly to Draco, his eyes narrowing as he took in the blonde who had gone back to leaning against the bar.

“Alright?” Draco asked. The man was breathing heavily, spittle reflected across his lips in the flashing light of the club.

The man reared back, puffing out his chest. “You wanna fucking go?!” he all but shouted over the heavy pounding bass.

Draco rolled his eyes as he felt a tumbler slip into his right hand. He lifted it up and spied the clear liquid in the bottom. With a smirk, he tipped back the glass and sipped the neat, chilled vodka before setting it back on the counter to the right of him.

“Have a nice night mate,” he said, amused by the other man’s drunken aggression.

“Na, na,” the man said as he looked over his shoulder. Draco followed his gaze to see a group looking their way, all wearing sneering looks of primal delight.

_For fuck’s sake._ Draco blew out a steady breath as he looked back to the drunken man with a raised eyebrow. The thing within him flexed and strained, his magic twisting and winding as his muscles tensed. Logically and sensibly, he knew that this was a bad situation and that he should walk away. He’d been this guy, picking the first fight he could just to impress. That had been the only way he had survived amongst the Death Eaters. They had seen him as a boy, as Lucius’ snivelling son and nothing more until that trip to the little village of Bakewell. Yaxley and Rowle had dragged him along on their raid - it had been their term for pillaging and terrorising the muggles. Draco didn’t remember a lot from that night, it had been a blur of terror and adrenaline as they had gallivanted through the snowy little town. What he does remember clearly was the feel of bone crunching beneath his fist as he shattered the nose of the old man barkeep.

He had learnt a lot in his time running with wolves.

The man across from him now shifted his shoulders, skewing the open collar of his cheap purple shirt.

“Na toff, this ain’t your part of town,” he spat, an ugly sneer stretching over his face.

On the other hand, Draco had spent fourteen months locked in a confined space only to have his entire world twisted on his head without so much as a ‘by your please’.

And Granger fucking hated him.

But he knew that already.

Still…

Draco leant back further against the bar and slipped his most practiced smirk on to his face, affecting a casually amused pose.

“I think you’ll find that this is my town,” he said as he allowed his eyes to slowly trail over the drunk man’s form. “Judging by your accent you’ve wandered too far south my boy. I am surprised you have the money to be as drunk as you are.” Draco laughed softly as he met the irate eyes of the purple shirted man. “Have you been sniping drinks or begging for charity?”

“You’re gonna fucking wish you hadn’t said that pretty boy,” he seethed; he puffed out his chest some more as he began to pace infront of Draco like a caged tiger.

Draco ran his left hand through his hair. “Promises, promises, big man,” he said with a wink.

He saw the moment the fuse was lit.

_Fuck it - she’ll never forget who I was._

The last bit of sense fled from the purple shirted man’s eyes. The man lunged forward, his left fist pulled back. Draco slipped forward to the left, dodging the lumbering force. He caught the man’s wrist as he threw the punch and wrapped it securely in a restraint as Draco’s left hand found home in the man's gelled hair.

_And I can’t undo the things I have done._

With a snap of force, he released a wave and brought the man’s face down onto the tumbler of vodka that lay in waiting on the counter. 

_I just don’t care anymore._

He stepped back and released the man, letting him fall unconsciously to the floor. He pocketed his clawed hands as he turned to the group who had been watching, waiting for violence. He was emotionless as blood pooled around his shoe and he met their wide eyes. One by one, they shuffled back, bumping into each other in their bid for freedom.

Draco released a quiet chuckle as he turned back to his seat. He swiped the last of the shattered glass from the counter before he looked up at Julian, who had a fixed look of disappointment on his face.

“He started it,” Draco said loudly, his eyes widening in innocence.

Julian lifted a pointed brow over the frames of his glasses before he turned to a woman down at the end of the bar.

“Tell Zabini and Hunt we need a clean up on bar two,” he shouted over the throbbing beat of the music. The girl nodded before she disappeared into the crowd. Julian turned back to Draco and peered over the bar down at the still form on the floor that people were casually stepping around with a look of distaste on their faces.

“Is he alive?” he shouted.

Draco tilted his head and rolled his eyes. “Probably.”

Julian pursed his lipped and tilted his chin. “Check his pulse.”

Draco grimaced, offended at the idea.

“Just fucking do it,” Julian snapped as he waved off a drunken customer who was vying for his attention.

Draco lifted his brow. “Another vodka?”

“Will you check if he’s alive?”

“Will you get me another vodka?”

“If I say yes will you?”

Draco paused and narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said finally. Julian rolled his eyes and pushed away from the bar.

“Check,” he said as he walked to get another tumbler.

Draco scoffed as he knelt down next to the purple shirted man, careful to avoid the blood that had escaped the deep gash in his head. He lay his fingers against the pulse point and waited.

Ever so gently, he felt the feeble flutter of a pulse.

He stood, wiped his fingers against his trousers with disgust, and turned back to the bar to see Julian waiting with the tumbler placed on the bar before him.

“He’s alive,” Draco said as he swiped the glass. He leant against the bar as he brought it to his lips, relishing in the burn on his tongue.

“Thank fuck,” Julian said, dropping his head between his shoulders. Draco turned his head towards him, an amused smirk on his face.

“Murder not your cup of tea?” he asked pleasantly.

Julian snorted. “Na, just the clean-up is an absolute bitch.”

Draco’s brows lifted as he released a surprised laugh at Julian’s grin.

“The fuck?!”

Draco turned to see Theo staring down at the unconscious man, as Pansy and a woman he didn’t recognise directed the man he had seen on the door to pick up the body.

“He started it,” Draco repeated as he took another sip of his drink.

Theo’s eyes widened. “So what?”

Draco felt a rise of the wave within him once again. “So I finished it,” he said with a smile.

Theo stepped closer to Draco to make room for the doorman to pass with the unconscious bleeding man.

“I left you alone for five minutes,” Theo grouched as he signalled to Julian.

“More like over an hour,” Draco grumbled as he took another sip.

Theo eyed the glass in his hand. “How many have you had?”

Draco looked from Theo to his drink and shrugged. Theo opened his mouth to reply when a new voice spoke.

“Gentleman.”

Draco met the black eyes of a hauntingly beautiful woman, whose raven black hair fell to her waist. A predatory smile curled her thin lips to reveal her sharp teeth.

“I am pleazed but not zurprized zat you know zis fine man Mr Nott,” the woman said as she placed her long fingers around Theo’s bicep. Draco watched with growing suspicion as he saw his friend slip into the practiced smile that he used to wear. Theo dropped his head demurely and released a stilted laugh.

“Ms Iskandar, I wasn’t expecting you here,” he said as he shifted his stance to slightly cover Draco.

“Vell I did promise to continue our conversation, I ‘oped you vould be ‘ere.” Ms Iskandar’s cold eyes slipped past Theo to meet Draco’s. “Eris,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Iskandar,” Draco said with an effortless smile. “Any relation to Bianca Iskandar?”

The smile slipped slightly on Ms Iskandar’s thin lips. “Yez, she iz my couzin. You know ‘er?”

Draco laughed softly. “Not personally. Draco Malfoy,” he breezed as he took her hand.

He felt her thin fingers tighten around his reflexively as he looked into her cold, dead eyes.

“Eris Iskandar, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

**_01:00 am, 13_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September - The Craigdarroch Inn, Loch Ness, Inverness, Scottish Highlands_ **

_“Hermione!”_

Her eyes snapped open at the hiss of her name and before she could comprehend her surroundings, she had pointed her wand into the neck of the shadow that was leant over her.

She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the soft light that filtered in from the hall as the shadow raised his hands and cleared his throat.

“’Mione, it’s me,” it said, its voice low but calm. 

Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she began to lower her wand. “Harry?”

“Hey,” he replied softly, “mind moving the wand?”

She started and pulled back, casting _‘lumos’_ as she did. The white light cut deep shadows onto Harry’s exhausted face.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked as she took in the severe set to his mouth.

“I was with Taliesin when your other Unspeakable, Heller sent a Patronus. She said it was precautionary, but she thinks something’s off down on the field. It’s dead.” He straightened and pushed the hair back from his eyes. “Taliesin told me to come and wake you.”

Hermione threw off the blanket and swung her legs out of bed.

“Any coffee on the go?” she called over her shoulder as she stalked from the room, leaving Harry scampering to catch-up.

“Yeah, down in the Mess,” he replied as they skipped down the stairs. “We’re heading there anyway,” he said as he slipped past her to take the lead. With a crook of his head, he signalled for her to follow him out the front door.

Hermione tightened the wrap of her soft armour as they exited into the chill Scottish night air. As she pulled her goblin weave fingerless gauntlets from an inner pocket, her eyes flicked to the banks of the Loch. The lightshow of the Ashrays and netting had become more frenzied in the time that she had slept, with some of the ghostly bodies soaring metres above the water, adding an air of desperation to their escape attempts. While she pulled on the gauntlets, she watched distractedly as a Merperson was lifted from the water by another to soften the landing of an Ashray who had flown particularly high.

“Apparently this is the worse it’s been,” Harry said, noticing her preoccupation. Hermione turned to him with a raised brow.

“What’s your opinion of all this?” she asked, as they ducked into the tent village.

She saw him shrug in the firelight of a passing tent as she sidestepped a witch who levitated a lumbering pile of folded cloth before her.

Harry stopped in what appeared to be a small intersection. Hermione noticed as she came to stand beside him, two of the larger tents that were closer to them had their flaps clipped open. Beyond she could see in the warm glow that illuminated their interior; weary officials from varying departments, judging by the colours of their robes, nursed steaming mugs and tankards. By a smaller tent, a witch in lime green overalls tutted as she ushered in a man who looked like he had fallen in the Loch, who was sporting a bleeding gash that ran down the side of his cheek.

“I think there’s a feeling in the air,” Harry said quietly. Hermione turned to him and noticed the serious way he surveyed the area. “I think everyone knows too,” he continued, “but they’re not sure what’s the best way to stop what’s coming.”

“And what do you think is coming?” she asked.

Harry turned to her, his mouth quirked into a bitter smile that she hadn’t seen since they had been in school.

“Are you playing dumb or is this you doing your researching?” Harry laughed.

Hermione smirked back at him. “Research, got to do everything I can to avoid confirmation bias.”

Harry made a noise in the back of his throat as he nodded and looked back to the surrounding tents.

“Feels like war ‘Mione, and I don’t just mean here,” he said darkly.

Hermione frowned as she felt another stone disappear into the inky depths of the lake with an innocuous **plop**.

“Where else?” she asked.

Harry scrunched his nose as he looked up at the sky before he met her eyes. “You know that bombing in Waterloo?” Hermione stiffened and nodded. “Ever since then, little riots have been spreading out over London. I dunno,” he said as he pocketed his hands and braced against the chill air. “Just seems like the pressure cooker is about to blow, you know? Come on, this way.” He set off down a narrow passageway between two smaller tents. “The Inn stocks muggle newspapers, the Telegraph headline is that poverty is at an all-time high and that food stamps are now being rationed. The Independent is saying that the Muggle Government’s new ‘ _Tough on Crime’_ approach is leading to a Police State mentality and The Sun is asking whether there needs to be another revolution to unseat the Bourgeoisie.” He looked over his shoulder as he and Hermione flattened themselves against a tent to make way for two people who carried a bleeding third between them. “Though I don’t take much stock in that last one. They had a very naked lady on the next page.” He flashed a grin at her rolling eyes before he set off again.

“I heard something about the riots,” Hermione replied benignly as she thought back to her conversation with Kilmore outside of Scotland Yard three days prior.

Harry grunted in response as he reached for the flap of a large tent and held it open for her. “Yeah, feels like we’re five minutes from something breaking you know?”

Hermione looked between his green eyes searchingly. When she found nothing but steadfast assurity of his belief, she released a puff of breath between her parted lips and ducked into the warmth of the mess.

She spotted Tal’s head bent low over a table in the corner as he spoke quickly with the surrounding officials. He briefly looked up as she approached and wordlessly handed her a steaming Styrofoam cup.

“Are you sure this isn’t just some Greenie who’s a bit trigger happy?” said a tall man in a deep Welsh accent.

Tal pulled back his lips and flashed his teeth before he settled them into a thoughtful purse. Hermione saw the thing that the men surrounded was a large map, littered with doodles and notations in red. Tal’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the details before him.

“She’s not a Greenie by our standards,” he said as his eyes flicked from one note to another.

The Welsh man scoffed. “Perhaps that says a lot about your department boyo. In my neck of the woods, it’s several years before Greenies are allowed into the field.” He looked around at the other men gathered who nodded their heads in concurrence.

“Do you presume your training to be the same as ours then sir?” Hermione said softly as she blew on the steaming drink in her hands.

The Welsh man narrowed his eyes at her. “What is that supposed to mean girl?”

“It means exactly what I said,” she said. “However I will amend by saying I have no idea, nor do I care enough to find out what department you come from. However, seeing as I have never seen you in the bowels of the Chambers, I’m going to assume that your training isn’t the same as ours.”

Tal pointed to a large red circle that was surrounded by mountains on all sides. He trailed his fingers to a small riverbed that seemed to cut through the rises.

“Do you know who I am?” The Welshman blustered. At last, Hermione flicked her gaze up to him and quirked her brow.

“No,” Hermione replied as she took a sip of her coffee.

“I am Edgar Verner the Second!” he said, puffing out his chest with aplomb.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Hermione said. “Do you know who _I_ am?” she repeated softly, holding his surprised stare. It was a second before Edgar shook his head with uncertainty in his eyes.

“Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl, right? Other than that,” his eyes slowly took in the black wrap of her Unspeakable armour, understanding dawning on his face, “no, I guess, not really.”

“Good.” Though her words were quiet, they held an iron edge to them before she dismissively returned back to Tal. “What’s going on?”

Tal tapped the riverbed once again before he straightened. “Heller sent a Patronus. She’s on high alert. It’s too quiet apparently. The guy she’s with, Selwyn?” His gaze switched to behind her to where Harry stood. “Yeah Selwyn,” Tal continued, “Heller wanted to go and have a gander down at the campsites, see what’s going on but Selwyn said it had been like this all day. Which set her off even more.”

Hermione frowned. “So there’s been no activity at all?”

Tal shook his head. “Nope, it’s a ghost town down there. Heller’s gone to go and check it out.” He turned back to the map. “I think she might have dragged the poor bloke with her,” he added. “Anyway, so running theory is that _if_ for _some reason_ ,” his eyes flicked up to the gathered officials, “the Centaur and Yeti have disappeared, we need to make sure they’ve disappeared elsewhere, and that they haven’t decided to unite and fuck us over.”

Edgar scoffed loudly, appearing to have recovered from his shock. “Clearly you have never worked with either kind. They’re peaceful creatures. What reason could possibly have to suddenly turn on us?”

“What reason did these peaceful creatures have to start a war in the first place?” Harry quipped from over Hermione’s shoulder.

“I take it you’ve found a possible access point to our side of the valley?” Hermione said as she blithely ignored the mounting tension at the table.

Tal nodded and tapped the map at the riverbed. He slowly trailed his finger down the winding path of the thin blue line that appeared on the eastern banks of the Loch – directly next to the Inn and the site of the Ashray exodus.

Hermione looked up to the gathered men who wore varying shades of resentment as they begrudgingly focused on the point.

“Does anyone have any theories for the Ashray’s behaviour?” she asked.

A couple of younger men looked to the Welshman who shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest.

“It’s not my department,” he said cautiously. “However, that Abbott, she reckons it’s because the disturbance in the ecosystem has gone too far. A fair amount of blood has polluted the Loch’s water from various tributaries and through the soil which is what originally set the Naga off. So they might be frightened of the blood and trying to escape thinking that there’s some big ol’ predator in their lake.”

Hermione took a sip of her steaming cup as she mulled on this thought.

“And is the chaos out there any worse than what it has been in the past couple days?” Tal asked as he looked up from where he leant over the map.

The Welshman bristled his thick moustache and looked at the others around him in conference.

“To be honest with you, yeah I think it is,” he said as others around the table nodded.

Hermione frowned.

“So if we assume it’s just the blood that’s causing this,” Hermione began as the hypothesis took shape in her mind, “then that would mean that there has been an influx of blood in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Which could potentially indicate an explanation for the sudden disappearance of the Centaurs and Yetis,” Tal said, picking up her train of thought.

Harry stepped around Hermione and looked to the map, his long finger tracing the line of the riverbed that Tal’s finger had traced moments before.

“What’s the alternative?” he said as he looked up, his eyes dancing between them.

Hermione’s eyes fell on where the river joined the Loch under Harry’s fingertip.

“That they know something we don’t,” she said. She looked to Tal, “I’ll go now. Scope it out.”

Tal dropped his wand from the holster up his sleeve and muttered a quick, “ _expecto patronum_.” Hermione smiled slightly at the pearlescent shaggy Irish Wolfhound that gambolled from the tip of the wand.

“Find Stoutly,” Tal muttered before turning to Hermione as the Patronus disappeared through the tent walls. “I’ll have Stoutly take Eagle Eye over the riverbed to watch your six.”

Hermione nodded and turned to leave. “Keep in touch yeah?” she called over her shoulder. She saw Tal make an ‘okay’ signal before she quirked an eyebrow to Harry who had followed her from the table.

“I’m absolutely coming with you, don’t even fucking argue,” he grouched as he reached for the tent flap, holding it open for her.

“What makes you think I’d argue against having a trained Auror with me?” she said with a smirk as she ducked under his arm.

Harry paused before following. “That’s exactly my point, yes.” His voice held a note of surprised confusion.

Hermione laughed as she hooked her arm through his. “Come on, let’s go traipse around a riverbed in the dark.”

“Sounds great,” he replied with such genuine enthusiasm that Hermione tilted her head back and barked a laugh into the night.

**_01:49 am, 13_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September, 1999 – Somewhere near the Falls of Foyer, The River Banks of River Foyer, Loch Ness, Inverness, Scottish Highlands._ **

****

“So then I told Taliesin that Robards threatened me with Azkaban just as he turned up,” Harry said as he hopped from one stone to another ahead of her.

“What did he say?” Hermione smiled at his childish antics as she carefully picked up the path.

Harry took a particularly large leap and nearly overbalanced into the river; his arms spun wildly to right himself. He turned as he became stable and grinned at her over his shoulder.

“There was a lot of fucking this and twatting that,” he laughed. “Turns out, Tal’s not Robard’s biggest fan.”

“Who knew,” Hermione replied glibly as shone her witchlight up the river.

They had been following the sounds of crashing water for the better part of fifteen minutes as they walked upstream. Foyers river was a wide fast-flowing river that split off into several tributaries. The only light they could really follow was from their witchlight; the moonlight overhead was sparse as it filtered between the growing clouds. The treacherous banks were a preamble to the towering gorge walls that framed each side of the river, creating the image that the water's path was literally cut into the earth. The banks were rocky and slippery in the Scottish autumn; as such, Hermione had spent the better part of their journey chiding Harry to stop with the acrobatics – she had given up, figuring it was wasted air the more he continued to ignore her. 

“So,” Harry said expectantly. Hermione glanced up at him briefly before she hopped from one large rock to the next; the flexible soles of her leather boots lending to her silent movement. She knew that tone of voice.

“What?” she asked cautiously.

He stopped and spun on his rock ahead of her, an impish grin adorning his face. “So you’re seeing Malfoy are you?”

“Oh for -” Hermione scoffed before biting down hard on her tongue to stop the sudden wave of fire she felt within her. “I saw him, yes,” she answered curtly.

“And how is he?”

Hermione paused, balancing on her rock as she looked to Harry. There was something odd in his voice, an unspoken question lingered in the air between them. 

“As well as can be expected,” she answered curiously. A sensory memory of Malfoy’s hard lines against her warming cheek assaulted her. “Better than expected actually,” she amended.

Harry nodded. “Did he say anything about his hearing?”

Hermione frowned. “No, we had more to discuss than that. Why, what are you thinking?”

“It’s probably nothing,” he said as he reached up to scratch the back of his head. “Theo and I were talking about it and I just got the impression, because it all happened so soon after this apparent inheritance, that maybe the hearing was completely contrived.”

Hermione stood stock-still and stared at him. A swell of love bloomed in her chest as she smiled at him.

“What?” he asked as he looked at her with growing concern.

“You didn’t speak to Tal about how Malfoy was involved did you?” she said as she hopped to the next rock.

“No, it slipped my mind once we got into the shit going on in the DMLE,” he sniffed and shrugged. “Does that mean the case was contrived then? Death to the Malfoys for the post-war campaign and all that?”

“Might be that, haven’t ruled it out,” Hermione replied as she plotted her course. “The hearing was definitely contrived, though my theory is that someone – our lovely Enlightened folk – wanted him free.”

Harry looked up sharply. “Iskandar and Perry? Why would they want that?”

“This really is just theory now so keep that in mind,” she said with a pointed finger. Harry made a cross over his heart whilst nodding. “Theory is, is that whatever the Enlightened are cooking up with the Voynich, includes some sort of elemental magic, which in turn ties in with the disappearances.”

“You’re fucking joking,” Harry barked. Though she was still a distance from him, when Hermione looked up, she could see his wide eyes staring at her in disbelief clearly in the moonlight.

“No, quite serious,” she said with a frown.

“’Mione, we handed it to them!” Harry exclaimed, “We stole it for them!”

“True, but we didn’t know – and still don’t know if it’s all connected. It might just be that they’re rather weird art thieves and this is all a massive coincidence,” she said flippantly.

Harry raised his hands in an exasperated gesture before he turned and jumped to another rock.

“So what other disappearances?” he asked.

“A Will-o’-the-Wisp in Germany and the Selkie. There was an attempt made on Malfoy the following morning after Ron said Kunchen went missing,” Hermione replied.

Harry stopped and looked off into the distance. “That ties into what Iskandar was saying at the club.”

“Exactly.” Hermione took a large leap across a branching tributary onto a log that hung over the edge. She skipped down the bark with light-feet and hopped to another rock before she tipped the log’s precarious balance.

“Oh, so you think Malfoy really is a victim then?” Harry said in surprise as he turned to her.

Hermione flicked her wild curls from her face and bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t tied it back for the hundredth time since they began their journey.

“Yes, I wasn’t just saying it for fun,” she replied waspishly.

Harry winced. “How uh -” he paused as he briefly looked behind him in the direction of the waterfalls. “How was it, y’know, being there with him after everything?” he asked, turning back to her.

Hermione bit the inside of his cheek as she measured the next jump.

“Fine,” she said easily before she pounced to the next stone.

“Hermione…”

“What do you want me to say?” She snapped as she whirled to face him. She felt the wave rise within her again. “That he was difficult? That he hasn’t changed? That I was surprised he didn’t call me a Mudblood?”

Harry’s expression darkened. “He didn’t, did he?”

“No,” she bit out. She huffed a sigh as she burned from her temper that scoured her veins. “Aside from being occasionally contrary he was…” She threw her arms up in a dramatic shrug, “Fine, he was fine all things considered.” She blew out a frustrated breath and went back to plotting her course.

“You don’t sound too happy about him ‘ _just being fine_ ’,” Harry replied.

“Well I don’t know what to tell you, I’d quite like the opportunity to punch him in the face again,” she grouched as she landed her next jump.

Harry laughed. “That bad huh?”

“You have no idea,” she grumbled as she bent her knees and launched herself into a particularly long leap.

“AH!”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to Harry as she landed. He was a few yards ahead of her, bent down on one knee, clutching his shoulder and looking down at his hand with confusion.

“Harry?” Hermione asked as the world grew still and quiet around her.

Harry looked up, the whites of his eyes evident as he pulled his hand away from his shoulder. Hermione saw the darkened substance on his hand just as Harry turned to look down the river.

That’s when she saw the white feathers of the long arrow that was embedded in his shoulder glow in the moonlight.

In horror, she looked down the river to see twenty or so Yeti clamouring on all fours over the rocks while a few Centaur waded through the river who had just rounded the bend up ahead.

Her heart beat once before she sprung into motion, leaping to the next rock in her path. The Yeti were closing in fast on Harry who had pulled his wand and had started to deflect the next volley of arrows that had whizzed through the sky.

 _“Bombard Maxima!”_ Hermione shouted as she snapped her aim to the gorge walls above the Yeti. The earth bellowed as rocks tumbled down onto the banks below. The Yeti skittered, dodging or bracing against the impact. A couple were thrown from the bank to the water below.

Hermione leapt again.

She pointed her wand down low, aiming for the river she ran parallel to. “ _Glacius Tuam,”_ she commanded as she leapt to the next rock. A deadly spray shot from her wand, immediately freezing the top layer of the river. As she was airborne, she swung her arm, moving the spray upstream. As her soft boots landed, the ice crept up the river towards the Centaur who reared back in alarm.

A flash of red caught her attention as Harry started firing stunning spells to the remaining Yeti who had recovered, as he staggered toward the edge of his rock.

A black Yeti who wore impressive antlers upon his head, leapt into the air, volleying a particularly jagged outcrop. Its long limbs swallowed huge swathes of ground when it landed as it bore down on Harry.

As her eyes darted between the lithe black figure and Harry’s hunched form, she realised it would reach him before she did.

She put on another burst of speed as she sent off another _‘bombarda’,_ heading off the other Yetis who were still advancing up the banks. The black yeti slalomed a shot of red from Harry’s wand, and Hermione saw it stretch its jaw savagely, just as a blaze of gold zipped over her head. She watched as it struck home and burrowed into the Yeti’s shoulder. The momentum of its speed, caused the Yeti to tumble violently down the bank and disappear with a sickening **crack** , smashing the ice below.

Hermione made the final leap and wasted no time in securing her arms around Harry’s weight.

“Hold on,” she ordered as she twisted her wand.

Just as she felt the familiar pull in her naval, time appeared to slow, allowing her to see the whole scene. 

A group of Centaurs were stabbing at the ice with looks of fury, while more were rounding the bend behind them.

The banks were filling with varying shapes and sizes of Yeti, whose painted faces and extravagant headgear struck horrifying silhouettes.

And above it all, stood on the high rise of the bank, watching over the scene, Hermione saw a woman staring back at her. Her white hair blew wildly in the breeze that had kicked up as she raised an arm. As if conducting an orchestra, she jerked her wrist.

With a **crack** Hermione pulled Harry away, but as they landed on the banks next to the frightened Ashray, she heard the calamitous roar from the riverbed.

“Granger?” she looked over to see Daphne running towards them. “What’s going on? What was that?”

Hermione looked around the camp.

Officials for sports, muggle relations and creatures.

Not soldiers who could fight on the frontline.

“They're coming. We need to evacuate now,” she said quickly. Daphne’s eyes widened in alarm. “Tell everyone to leave everything and apparate,” Hermoine continued, “I’m going to get Harry to the floo to get him to St Mungo’s but then I’ll be back to help buy some time _. GO!_ ”

Daphne’s lips thinned as she nodded in understanding and took off running for the banks.

“Like hell are you benching me ‘Mione,” Harry growled as he tried to pull away from her. He stumbled slightly before Hermione secured her arm around his waist again.

“Come on,” she urged as she ignored the tell-tale slick between her fingers as she curled them into his jumper.

“No, absolutely not,” Harry bit back archly as he made to pull away from her once again.

“Harry James Potter, you will do as you are fucking told!” Hermione snapped. “We don’t have time for this. I want this bank cleared before they get here. That includes _you._ ”

Harry blinked down at her.

“Come _on!_ ” she urged as she pulled him none too gently up the steps. “If you want to help, help from London. _While_ the Healers are seeing you,” she added archly, glancing up to him, “send letters off to the Edinburgh office and the Ministry. Tell them we’ve lost Loch Ness. Tell them Inverness and the surrounding muggle areas are at risk. Tell them,” she said with force as she pushed him into the entry room that was decorated with doilies, “that we’ll hold the line as long as possible for a tactical evacuation of non-offensive personnel, but the numbers aren’t in our favour, so we won’t hold it for long. Tell them to send reinforcements.”

Harry grimaced with pain as he leant against the mantle of the floo.

“You gotta help me with my shoulder, I can’t floo like this,” he said breathily. Hermione walked around him and eyed the long arrow that protruded from his shoulder.

“Brace,” she commanded gently as she wrapped a bloodied hand around the shaft. “On three okay?”

Harry nodded his head and swallowed heavily before blowing out a shaky breath.

“One.”

She felt him tense.

_“Two.”_

_“FUCK!”_

She snapped the shaft near the base and caught Harry’s heavy weight as he slumped against the mantle.

“Bitch,” he breathed as he panted.

“Love you too,” she said sweetly as she tossed the broken shaft aside. “Can you make it?”

Harry paused a beat as his breathing slowed. His jaw popped as he collected himself.

“I’m good,” he said in a low voice, as he slowly straightened. “I’ll send those messages yeah?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, _whilst_ you see the healers.” 

Harry waved her off as he reached for the floo powder pot. He blew out a short breath, steadying himself before he tossed the handful into the grate.

“You’re not gonna stay here long are you?” he said, turning his worried green eyes to her.

“No,” she lied easily. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Harry looked as if he wanted to say more but then shook his head.

“St Mungo’s,” he barked as he stepped into the green flames.

Hermione pushed all the air steadily from her lungs as she picked up her wand.

 _“Expecto patronum,”_ she breathed as she spun on her heel to leave the room. She smiled at the twirling otter as it looped around her as she trotted out of the Inn. “Find Raine. Creatures have united against us and are about to attack Loch Ness. Unknown hostile humanoid female seems to be commanding them. Send reinforcements to assist with evacuation of collateral.” She twitched her wand to release the pearlescent otter and broke into a run down the Inn’s path as it disappeared into the night.

“DRCMC! I want you assisting the Aurors on the boundaries and front line!”

Hermione turned sharply at the sound of Ron’s voice. She saw him standing on a small rise with a crowd amassing around him. For a moment he was illuminated in flashes of gold. Hermione looked up and followed the light trails to see the familiar hunched form of Stoutly in a makeshift perch on a high-rise. As her gaze flicked back to Ron, she saw him lean down to listen to Mrs McNealy before he straightening with a grim look of determination on his face.

“Everyone else, sweep the area for any remaining muggles. I want teams ready to head up the banks to evacuate Inverfarigaig, Whitefield, Dores, Aldourie, Balchraggan, Strone, Lenie, Achnahannet, Alltsigh and Fort Augustus. They’re the priority. After that, we tackle Inverness.” Ron raked a hand through his hair just as he spotted Hermione and beckoned her over.

A series of **cracks** echoed behind her and she looked over her shoulder to see Heller return with Selwyn. Hermione released a sharp whistle, catching the blonde’s attention before she started towards Ron; Heller jogged to catch-up, Selwyn and the rest of the group in tow.

“Well?” Heller asked briskly as she fell into step.

“You were right, they’re coming down the Foyers riverbed,” Hermione said grimly.

Heller grunted her reply as another series of flashes caught Hermione’s attention; she looked up to see Stoutly release another volley of shots. Behind him, thick clouds gathered, blocking the soft light of the moon.

“Granger!”

She looked up to see Tal break from the gathering crowd around Ron.

“What happened to Potter?” he asked as he clasped Heller’s shoulder in greeting and fell into step with them.

“Sent him to St Mungo’s, arrow to the shoulder. He’s sending for reinforcements from the Scottish office and the Ministry,” Hermione replied promptly.

Tal nodded before turning back to her, his gaze searching her person. “Right, you okay?”

“Fine,” she replied curtly, as they reached the amassed crowd around Ron.

It took Ron a few seconds more to spot the Unspeakables, but when he did he called them forward.

“I’m assuming I can count on you guys?” he asked.

“Of course,” Hermione replied, “where do you need us?”

Ron looked to Heller. “Tracker, I need you to take a team of DRCMC and Aurors up the side of the Foyers. Stay wide, but make sure the creatures are bottle necked. I don’t want any slipping away over the sides and skirting around us.”

Heller nodded once and slipped away, disappearing quickly into the crowd.

“You two,” Ron said to Hermione and Tal, “I need hands holding the line at the mouth of the Foyer.” He paused, “I’m sorry,” he added.

Hermione shook her head and reached up to pull him into a brief hug. “Be careful,” she said into his damp hairline.

“You too,” he mumbled into her shoulder before pulling away.

Hermione squeezed his hand one last time before she turned to join Tal who was waiting for her on the fringes of the group.

In unspoken agreement, they apparated to the spot where the Foyers rivers flowed into the waters of Loch Ness. There was a group of about twenty or so, scarlet robes and leather jacket-wearing individuals already gathered.

One of which, being Hannah Abbott.

“You doing okay?” Hermione asked as Hannah offered her a weak smile that was illuminated by another volley of gold that disappeared down the mouth of the river.

“Not really,” Hannah replied as she eyed the river with trepidation. “I just don’t understand how we got here. They’re peaceful creatures. This feels…”

“Like something that has spun wildly out of our control?” Hermione offered as she tightened her gauntlets.

“Yeah,” Hannah said as she smiled at Tal who flanked her other side. “Kunchen stressed that it was the magic’s will for the two sides to fight. So I don’t understand how that’s shifted to them attacking us.”

“They’re being commanded I think,” Hermione said as she looked up the darkened sky. The first drops of rain had started to fall.

“Perfect weather for a riverside jaunt,” Tal commented, flashing a grin at Hannah, who laughed quietly before speaking again.

“I’m not really a fighter either, so this just feels all types of wrong. Plus, from what I saw, the Yeti’s camp was fucking huge so I’d guestimate a hundred plus of them alone -”

“Well that’s alright lass, you just focus on the defensive,” Tal said easily, cutting off her growing panic. “Make sure none of us get winged with an arrow and I’ll do the fighting for you.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow and smirked at the roguish grin on Tal’s face.

A shout further up the line caught their attention.

“Get ready!”

Hermione recognised the burlish rolling command of Edgar. She jostled her wand in her hand as she stepped up to the bank edge and looked down the mouth of the river.

The space was quiet and dark save for the continuous rush of the fast current. She was idly wondering how much the ice had slowed down the creature’s progress as another volley of gold sliced through the black.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the walls of the bank were writhing with the long limbs of the crawling Yeti, whose claws dug into the sodden earth. The river itself was full of Centaurs who were lined up, shoulder to shoulder; their cocked arrows flashed gold, as another of Stoutly’s volleys illuminated the river. Three Centaurs in the front line fell as the spell struck true, causing them to collapse chaotically beneath the surface of the water. This only hindered the wall of Centaur’s progress momentarily; the second line tripped over the fallen bodies before righting themselves once more, to steadfastly continue their advance.

As the rain began to fall with abandon, Hermione rolled her shoulders and braced her stance.

As another round of golden volley illuminated the passage, Edgar’s voice signalled crisply through the air.

Hermione raised her wand, her eyes focused on the lined walls of the banks.

“ _Bombarda Maxima.”_

**_02:27 am_** ** _ **,** 13_** ** _th_ ** **_of September, 1999 – Soteria, Soho, London, UK_ **

Draco hung his head low between his shoulders as he leant against the bar. He mused that he didn’t think he’d quite drunk so much in his life and the world was only just beginning to spin around him.

“All I’m saying Draco is that you really didn’t have to do that,” Blaise huffed from where he stood to the left of him.

Draco swallowed thickly and looked up, searching for his new best friend – the ever trusty Julian. He tapped the counter as a lock of white hair fell down into his eyes.

“Whatever you say dear,” he said loudly over the music, “I promise not to break any more of your precious glasses.” Draco grinned as Julian popped a tumbler of vodka in front of him.

“As you bloody well should, they’re imported from Murano,” Blaise sniffed as he looked out onto the floor.

Draco leant heavily against the bar as he turned to Blaise, his grin still in place. He had finally achieved his mission to numb the burning temper within him.

Though he knew he was going to suffer the consequences in the morning.

“Why are you giving all these plebeians imported glass if you’re just going to have an aneurism every time one smashes?” Draco asked as he eyed Blaise over the lip of his tumbler.

Blaise lifted an eyebrow that held the entire weight of his judgement. “Not all of them are plebeians,” he replied haughtily.

“No,” Draco mused as his eyes scoured the room. “Some of them are worse,” he said pointedly.

Eris Iskandar had spent the last couple of hours plying them with shots of tequila and talking about some bookclub of hers that she seemed to be trying to push. Draco had nodded along for as long as the tequila was pouring, but when that had dried up, he’d made an executive decision. Theo had been encouraging whatever the woman had been talking about and hadn’t seemed to be bothered by the way her long nails had curled into his shirt.

So Draco had left them in their darkened corner to hunt for more liquor.

That had been an hour ago… maybe?

“All sorted.”

Draco looked over his shoulder to see Pansy push through the crowd to join them. He raised his arm and curled her into his frame in an easy side-hug.

“What’s the official line?” Blaise asked.

“The guy had too much to drink, lost his footing and had an unfortunate accident at Kleamono’s, rather than here. All his friends have been obliviated too,” she said as she lifted the tumbler from Draco’s hand and shot back the contents.

“Rude,” Draco pouted as he turned back to search for his ever-trusty drink fairy.

“Where’s Theo?” he heard Pansy ask as he motioned to Julian for another drink.

“Pulling some vampire,” Draco called over his shoulder. He flashed a grin to Julian as he took the freshly filled tumbler. He turned back and paused, glass half-raised to his lips. Blaise and Pansy were shooting eachother panicked looks that even Draco could recognise through the haze of alcohol.

“What?” he asked.

“Tell me it wasn’t Eris Iskandar,” Blaise said seriously. Draco frowned as he nodded, his eyes darting to Pansy who slipped out from under his arm to disappear into the crowd.

“She seemed harmless enough,” Draco edged, “if not a little mental and giving off some shitty vibe. She just kept going on about her club is all.”

Blaise swore viciously under his breath.

Draco wet his lips and placed the glass back on the counter. The welcome inebriation seemed to suddenly lose its sheen.

“Who is she?” he asked darkly.

Blaise looked up, his brown eyes flicking between Draco’s. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know a whole lot, but she’s bad fucking news.”

The wave awoke once more in Draco’s chest, this time aided by the alcohol that coursed through his system.

“You and I are going to have a talk about your clientele,” he growled as he felt the tumbler shatter in his hand.

“I can’t find him, they’ve gone,” Pansy said, slightly out of breath as she appeared back at their side.

Draco looked to Blaise. “You’re going to tell me everything you know right now, and then we’re going to find him.” He lifted his hand and brushed the broken glass from his fingers. “And stop serving fucking imported glass in a fucking nightclub,” he growled as he stepped away from the bar to head for the back office, with Pansy and Blaise following in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... You doing okay?
> 
> As usual, Kudos is love and comments let me know you're there. Any thoughts and theories?


	16. Dormiveglia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back dears.
> 
> Thank you for all your amazingly kind words on the previous chapter, I haven't had time yet to sit down and reply but know that your words are a huge motivator for me to write and post. 
> 
> I'm feeling strange about this chapter. While on the one hand, I am so excited that we have reached this point in the story, on the other I am seriously debating going radio silent after posting this. 
> 
> Canttouchthis - you are my ride and die on this. Once again, I owe the coherence of this chapter and my sanity to this wonderful human. Please take a minute to check out her fantastic Dramione WIP Finding Kallipolis: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577627/chapters/67459354  
> Also, Chapter 14 has been updated with art by the beautifully talented Annavek who can be found on tumblr (annavek94.tumblr.com) and IG: https://www.instagram.com/annavek94.art/
> 
> TRIGGERS: violence / blood and gore / death / panic and anxiety /of particular note, there is mention of a 'skinhead' character. This caused a lot of confusion between Canttouchthis and me. Please know, that here in the UK, a skinhead is more in reference to the Botherboys of the '70s in drainpipes and Doc Martins, who most probably-definitely killed people - but weren't Nazi's. And while some of them had right leanings, for the most part they were the more angry version of the Punk movement that rose in response to right-wing conservatism (the irony of its evolution is not lost on me). I am aware that this is what the term has come to reference here in 2021. So please note, that the skin-head here is not a Nazi. He's based on a dear friend of mine who is as liberal as they come. 
> 
> Without further ado, I'm gonna go and hide whilst I sincerely hope you .... enjoy?

**_For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,_ **

**_And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;_ **

**_And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,_ **

**_And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!_ **

\- _Byron_

**Chapter 16 – Dormiveglia**

* * *

* * *

**_11:15 pm, 13_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September, 1999 – Somewhere between the portrait of Perseus Parkinson and Ignatius Tuft, corridor that leads to the Minister of Magic’s Office, Level 1, Ministry of Magic, London, UK_ **

Nuance.

By its very nature, human society seeks differentiation.

It’s either up or down.

Left or right.

Late or early.

Life or death.

Black or white.

Never both.

The human experience is categorised by these labels which frame the lens that life is seen through. Ergo, a liberal sees the world through a lens that holds all the ideals of liberalism; a conservative will see the world through a conservative lens.

These labels help to process information; they break things down into nice, bite-sized chunks. They make it easy to frame your morals and decide what is right – and what is wrong.

Because time is very short.

The human experience is finite.

There is too much to witness in a hundred years.

But time is just another label isn’t it.

With time, comes experience. And with experience, comes perspective.

And with perspective, comes nuance.

To take another’s life is wrong according to the moral foundation of a society that is promulgated by an instinctive need to not behave in such a manner that will jeopardise the continuation of the species.

But if that life took your child’s life? The love of your life? What if that life was responsible for the death of millions?

Would it be right or wrong to kill that person?

Life and death are the most definite opposing labels and even then, the spectrum of experience that death covers cannot be neatly surmised as just ‘being dead’.

Nothing ever is late or early because time is just a concept.

Nothing ever is just left or right, or up or down because if you travel far enough one way, you’ll end up back where you started, coming from the opposite direction.

Right and wrong are never black and white.

It takes an age to be able to walk freely and live comfortably within the narrative of a fucked up, grey mess.

“Do you know what a tragedy is?”

He had been waiting for Kingsley to leave his office for twenty minutes. He watched as the Minister’s deep navy robes swayed as his hand clutched at his chest in fright. Kingsley leant forward, his wide eyes narrowing as he squinted into the shadowed corner.

It wasn’t that Raine had hidden from the Minister per se, it was more that he had wanted to avoid the judging eyes of the gossiping portraits who take great pleasure in passing comment on how exhausted you look.

“Willows?” Kingsley said, confused. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you,” Raine sighed as he pushed off the walls and pulled himself from the shadows. He squinted against the sharp grey light that streamed through the tall windows as he cocked his head in the direction of the elevators.

“Shall we?” Raine purred, his lips stretching into a predatory smile. He could feel the murderous glee pre-emptively burn in his chest as he watched Kingsley shift with unease.

“Let’s,” the Minister replied with forced bravado that had Raine snickering as he spun on his heel and skipped to the banks.

“Where are you heading?” Kingsley asked politely as they stepped into the empty elevator.

Raine leant against the wall, hitching a foot to rest against it as he put his hands in his pockets. “Where are _you_ going?” he countered.

Kingsley frowned. “For an emergency brief with the Heads.”

Raine grunted as he nodded his head. “Scotland?”

“Yes, among other things,” Kingsley sighed as rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb as the elevator took off. “Do you have an update on that? Is that why you’re here?”

“It’s still shit,” Raine replied glibly.

Kingsley raised his brows in disbelief.

Raine shrugged.

“Right,” Kingsley said, clearing his throat in discomfort as he cast a sardonic side-eye towards Raine who smirked in reply. “So where are you going then?” he continued.

“Westminster,” Raine replied.

There was a beat of silence as Kingsley blinked with confusion before realisation dawned on his face.

“Oh, absolutely not Willows! Are you mad?!”

“I’m afraid so,” he said seriously. “Entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret, all the best people are.”

Kingsley rolled his eyes at the impish grin that Raine flashed at him.

“Why do I put up with you?” he sighed wearily as the elevator came to a stop.

“Like you have a choice,” Raine snorted as he pushed off the wall and exited into the atrium.

They walked in silence for a moment, with Kingsley nodding courteously to the people he passed and speaking empty words to those who tried to pull him into conversation.

“Why are you coming along then?” Kingsley said quietly out of the corner of his mouth as nodded genially to Amanda Ellery and Gale Fawley from the Wizengamot, who were stood waiting in line at the Walding’s Coffee cart.

“You never answered my question,” Raine mused distractedly as he watched the two Warlocks bow their heads, immersing themselves in an intense discussion.

Kingsley frowned. “What question?”

“Do you know what a tragedy is?” Raine replied, pulling his eyes from the pair.

The Minister laughed deeply in his chest as he looked over his shoulder. “Of course I do, why do you ask?”

Raine laughed too, his grin wide on his face. “Because I can’t decide what type of tragedy _this_ is _,_ ” he chuckled whilst gesturing to Kingsley’s person.

He watched the Minister’s eyes dart around the Atrium as his laughter quickly dried up. Instead, he affixed his politician smile as he stopped and turned to Raine.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Raine leant heavily on his back foot, cocking his hip and his head as he assessed the man coldly, his own grin still in place.

“It’s hard to define a tragedy,” Raine said, as the busy foot-traffic of the Atrium passed by. “What is deemed a tragedy is a subjective matter to the individual. But the great playwrights, now they know tragedy.”

Kingsley wet his lips, a slight frown creased his forehead. “What are you getting at?”

“You see,” Raine continued blithely on as if Kingsley hadn’t spoken, “a Shakespearean tragedy is when a tragedy – usually death – befalls the main character, turning him into a hero. In a Greek tragedy, the tragedy occurs _because_ of the hero’s arrogance and foolishness.” He straightened his stance as his grin dropped from his lips. “So help me here Kingsley. Are you a Shakespearean tragedy, or a Greek one?”

Kingsley fixed him with an intense gaze as his lips thinned, his politician smile finally gone.

“Is that a threat?” he asked, his voice low with warning.

“That entirely depends dear,” Raine replied.

Kingsley took a step towards Raine. “On what?”

Raine smirked. “On whether or not you’re a fool.”

“And if I am?”

“Then no, this is not a threat,” Raine said simply. “It’s a promise.”

Kingsley pulled back his lips in a sneer. “Good to know. So what do I stand accused of?”

Raine leant back and assessed him.

_Tense shoulder – high around his neck._

_Fists curled – ready to strike._

_Pupils dilated – anger._

_Breaths quick – frightened._

“What do you know of the Enlightened?” Raine said quietly, so as to not have his voice carry across the busy atrium.

Kingsley’s frown deepened as he searched Raine’s face.

“I’ve never heard of it,” he said slowly, “should I have?”

_Fists uncurled._

_Shoulders lowered._

_Breath still quick, no faster – stressed._

_Pupils still dilated._

_Genuine confusion._

_Fuck me, he’s telling the truth._

Quick as a flash, he snapped his hand out and tapped the Minister upside his head, displacing his hat slightly, before he brushed passed him. Kingsley gawked and he scrambled to right his hat and catch up with Raine’s long footsteps.

“While I’m glad this is a Shakespearean tragedy, you’re still a fucking fool,” Raine grumbled as they stepped up to a fireplace. “After you,” he said gesturing to the grate.

Kingsley blinked.

“Are you gonna tell me what this is all about?” he hissed, “Who are the Enlightened?! What th-”

“Will you move your fucking arse please?” Raine pressed.

Kingsley drew himself up, huffing as he righted his robes. “You are going to explain everything after this meeting,” he said threateningly as he passed. In a flash of green, he disappeared. With one last glance around the Atrium, noting that no-one seemed to have been disturbed by their scene, Raine grabbed some powder from the pot in the wall and stepped into the grate.

“Buckingham Palace.”

“Ah yes, this is my colleague, he’ll be joining me today.”

Raine brushed the errant soot from his soft goblin-weave robes as he looked up. An old man with an imperious set of eyebrows scowled at him with his naturally judging look.

“Peter, lovely to see you again,” Raine quipped as he smiled breezily to the butler as he passed. Kingsley did a double-take in surprise.

“How-”

“Come on,” Raine called over his shoulder as he exited the drawing-room. He skipped down the shallow stairs.

“Wait,” Kingsley called as he caught up with Peter following closely behind. He looked around at the golden gilded walls and the still portraits. “How do you know Peter?” he asked, his eyes narrowed further as Raine turned to take another staircase upward. “And how do you know your way around here?”

Raine smirked as he paused and turned in front of two towering, cream doors.

“I know Peter because he makes excellent coffee, and I know my way around because.”

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. “Because what?”

Raine reached behind him and turned the handles of the doors. He leant back, using his weight to open them and swung into the room with a wink to Kingsley’s alarmed face.

“Oh, hello.”

Raine smoothly righted himself and turned toward the lofty voice.

“Your Majesty,” he said as he dipped low into a formal bow. He heard Kingsley do the same behind him.

“Minister Shacklebolt and his colleague to see you Ma’am,” Peter announced disapprovingly from the doorway. Raine flashed him a grin over his shoulder as Kingsley stepped forward to shake the hand of the other occupant in the room.

“Prime Minister Blair,” he said warmly.

“Minister Shacklebolt,” replied a short, wiry man, who then turned to Raine expectantly.

“Oh don’t mind me,” Raine said, waving him off as he stepped around the pair of them towards the tiny white-haired Queen who smiled warmly up to him.

“This is a lovely surprise,” she said as Raine bent down and cheek-kissed both sides of her face in greeting.

“Well it’s been too long,” he replied gently as he took the armchair beside her, facing the bewildered stares of the Heads of government.

“How are the kids?” Raine asked.

A small smile crept over the Queen’s wizened features. “They are doing well, William is in Eton and is doing wonderfully; Harry is playing for the Ledgrove team now.”

“Keeping out of trouble?” Raine replied.

The Queen threw him an admonishing glance to which he replied with a smirk.

“You are the worst for encouraging him,” she said.

He feigned innocence just the door re-opened.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to Ma’am,” he said loftily as he eyed Peter set down a tray of coffee and tea before them.

  
  


“Quite,” the Queen chided as she turned to the statesmen. “So, London’s burning and the Scots have revolted. I feel like I should be locking people in the Tower at this rate.”

Raine chuckled as he poured himself some coffee.

The Muggle Prime Minister snapped himself from his reverie first

“Yes,” he said, as he straightened and cleared his throat. “Right, well so far as of this morning, we have managed to take back the Heath and we have cordoned off the bridges. Tower Bridge is up.”

“So you have brought London to a stand-still?” the Queen asked quizzically, the bite of her tone evident beneath her words.

Mr Blair glanced at Kingsley before continuing. “Yes, it was felt that by ceasing the mob's access to the different boroughs, we would be able to impart some kind of control over the masses.”

“And has it worked?” she asked calmly.

“Well,” Mr Blair shifted in his seat uneasily. “No, not really. We’ve just managed to keep the chaos localised to their specific areas.”

The Queen remained motionless. “So what do you intend to do?”

Mr Blair clasped his hands before him. “Well, we’re hoping that the Met will be able to get them under control. However, as of four-thirty this morning, there were outbreaks in Birmingham, Manchester, Plymouth, Bristol and Swansea. We’re expecting more by later today.”

The silence that followed his report was heavy.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” the Queen said, seemingly unmoved. “What do you intend to do?”

Mr Blair swallowed heavily. “Well, Ma’am, we’re doing all we can at th-”

“My country is beginning to cannibalise itself.” Though she remained perfectly still and her voice barely raised, her eyes flashed dangerously and her sharp tone cut through the room. “You have held this country in a tight fist, imposing the strictest of controls onto it, and it’s ready to blow. So, Mr Blair, I ask for the _third_ time, what do you intend to do?”

Raine blew gently on his steaming coffee as he peered over the lip of his drink.

“If we are unable to get the country under control,” Mr Blair said uneasily, “then we’ll send in the forces.”

Raine looked eagerly to the Queen who sat unflinchingly still.

With a very subtle breath and a slow blink, the Queen turned her gaze to Kingsley.

“Minister?”

Kingsley sat to attention. “We have actioned Willows’ department as well as the DMLE and the Edinburgh office to assist in the evacuation of the Muggles in the surrounding area.” He turned promptly to the Prime Minister. “We are going to need assistance with Inverness.”

Mr Blair nodded bleakly. “What’s going on?”

“Centaur and yeti have joined forces and by the looks of it, declared war on us,” Raine said nonchalantly into his coffee.

The Queen sniffed as she pursed her lips. “Do we know why?”

“No,” Kingsley replied as his eyes darted to Raine, seeking reassurance. Raine shrugged aloofly as he rested his cup against the arm of the chair and relaxed into the seat. His aching muscles and tired bones reluctantly melted into the stiff upholstery.

“They were fighting each other because of a seemingly predetermined cause,” Kingsley continued, “and now they have turned on us. We are, as of yet, unaware of the catalyst for this alliance.” He turned to Raine, “We are unaware, right?”

“Sure,” Raine replied lazily.

Of course, he had received Hermione’s Patronus around two that morning. He had finally decided enough was enough and had gone down to the archives to find the bloody report on creature inheritance that they had all been waiting for. He had scoured through level after level, heading deeper and further into the bowels of the Ministry, until finally, he had come across a strange sight. On the lowest of levels, where the cobwebs were thick with dust bunnies and strange scurry sounds set one’s teeth on edge, Raine’s witchlight had fallen upon an odd-looking hovel made from boxes and crates. He knelt down and was alarmed and relieved to see the haunted face of Henry Waldron – the missing administrator.

 _“What do you have there?”_ Raine had asked gently so as to not spook the man.

Henry had handed a tattered file over with trembling hands. The parchment held a familiar texture: leathery but smooth with age. _Pre-fifteenth century then,_ he had thought as he had pulled open the fragile document.

 _“I found it,”_ Henry had whispered, _“the last time a creature inheritance like this happened.”_

 _“Shall we get you out of here then?”_ Raine had replied as he had eyed the structure around Henry, who was vehemently shaking his head.

 _“Can’t, the imp,”_ he had hissed.

Raine had been about to reply when he heard something to his right fall. He had looked over his shoulder into the darkness of the Archive stacks but had seen no further movement.

 _“Well, let’s leave the imp to it shall we?”_ Raine had cooed, turning back to a terrified Henry. He had just taken the administrators hand to pull him free of his improvised shelter when the pearlescent otter had shown up.

Needless to say, Raine had come away from the debacle with a trembling administrator and the knowledge that imps hated Patronus’ with a violent passion.

He looked over to the Queen who was watching him with knowing eyes and smirked at her. Her top lip twitched into the flash of a sneer as her blue eyes glimmered gold before her features became passive once more.

“How long do we have until the rest of the country revolts,” she said to the Muggle Prime Minister, “and how long do we have before the exposure goes beyond the level that is rectifiable?” she said the Minister of Magic. The two men shared uneasy looks.

“Well,” Mr Blair began, “I would say that if the rioting continues to spread at its current projected rate, then it’ll be a couple of days.”

Kingsley heaved a weary sigh. “It’s inopportune that these events have coincided. Without the rest of the Isle under control, it certainly increases the risk of exposure.” He shook his head in thought. “If we have to evacuate Inverness, the chances of muggles slipping through the cracks will increase tenfold.”

“What are you saying Minister?” the Queen commanded.

“I’m saying that if we reach Inverness, a level of exposure is inevitable,” Kingsley said with a dower expression.

The silence was thick with tension.

Mr Blair was the first to speak. “That’s not going to help in our attempts to calm England and Wales.”

“Then may I suggest you do something about it Prime Minister?” The Queen’s voice was so quiet, her words so crisp, that the threat of danger was palpable in the grandeur of the palace drawing-room.

“Ma’am,” Mr Blair breathed.

Nobody moved.

“May I also suggest, that you move with immediacy gentlemen?” The Queen said, her eyes darting between the two Ministers who nodded in contrition mumbling their assenting ‘Ma’am’s.

The Queen reached over to her side table and clicked a button. Seconds later, Peter appeared at the door.

“I would like regular reports from the pair of you,” she said as she stood. Raine hopped to his feet, bowed before he turned to follow Kingsley from the room.

“A moment please Cariad?”

Raine paused at the Queen’s request and met Kingsley’s worried and confused eyes.

“Go ahead, I’ll be a moment,” he said, nodding to Peter who closed the door behind the Ministers.

“Ma’am,” he said turning back to the Queen whose drawn expression showed her years.

“What are you withholding?” she asked bluntly.

“Nothing I-”

“Do _not_ play games with _me_ young man!” she snapped. “I have known you for far too long, I know all your tricks. Now, what are you withholding?”

Raine sucked his tooth and raised his brow. “Not all of them dear.”

The two stared at eachother, their eyes piercing as they measured the fight in one another.

“This is my country – my people,” the Queen stated, her voice softening with her plea. “What are you withholding?”

Raine clenched his jaw and sighed, giving the Queen one last withering look before he walked over the window. He could see the lines of the police and soldiers who were patrolling the palace grounds. In the distance, plumes of dark smoke rose into the grey sky.

“You really should get out of London Liz,” he said quietly.

The Queen sighed as she came to join him. “They’re talking about bringing the RAF in to airlift me out. It’s bloody ridiculous.”

“No, it’s smart,” he stated before pausing in thought. “Just don’t go to Balmoral.”

The Queen laughed quietly.

“One of mine is on the ground in Scotland,” Raine continued as his eyes searched the skyline. “She’s a good one, I trust her.”

“That’s new,” the Queen commented. “Since when do you trust them?”

Raine shrugged. “Like I said, she’s a good one. She was there when the creatures attacked.”

“Is she okay?”

Raine nodded, “I think so, haven’t heard from her in a while. Anyway, she said she saw an unknown female commanding the creatures.”

“Who could do that?” the Queen asked curiously.

“ _That,_ is the billion-dollar question my dear,” Raine said as he turned to her and leant against the windowpane.

She looked up to him. It had always been a source of amusement to him how this family had remained so comically small in this form compared to what he knew them to be.

“Is this chaos really all it is being said to be Cariad? Or…” she said as her eyes drifted to the skyline.

“You tell me,” he replied, watching her. “You feel it, don’t you?”

The Queen’s blue eyes flashed gold once again as they snapped to meet his. “Yes, what is it?” she asked.

Raine blew out a heavy breath, emptying his lungs, hollowing his chest so that all that was left was the fluttering sense of urgency that had plagued him since the day that that goddamn Malfoy boy had changed.

“It’s broken,” he said darkly.

The Queen cocked her head in the familiar serpentine way that filled him with a rush of endearing warmth.

“I get that, but what’s broken?” she asked.

“Everything I think, balance,” he replied. “I think we’re about to fall from a very high cliff.”

The Queen hissed between her teeth as her expression darkened. “Who broke it? How did they break it?” She looked up to him searchingly. “What are you going to do?”

Raine’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest. “I have no idea who _they_ are, some cult, but I’m hazarding a guess this woman in Scotland ties into it somehow. How did they break it?” He sucked in a breath as he scrapped a hand through his hair, “no idea, I’m working on that. And I’m going to do what I always do, don’t ask inane questions, Young One.”

The Queen pursed her lips as she huffed.

“I meant, what in particular are you going to do?”

Raine shrugged in a laissez-faire manner and he backed away from her, headed towards the door.

“Haven’t got a fucking clue, but I know I’m gonna try a keep as many people alive as possible,” he quipped as he cocked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to go; you get out of London please.”

The Queen raised an unimpressed eyebrow as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I can handle a few rioters,” she grumbled.

“I know you can,” he said in a placating tone as he reached for the door. “But they don’t, and if the aim is to keep exposure to a minimum, I suggest you remove yourself so as to avoid that situation, yeah?”

The Queen tapped her foot as her old eyes followed his movements.

“Be safe Cariad.”

Raine’s smirk softened to a gentle smile. “And you Young One, give my love to the family.”

She nodded her assent. “Oh! One last thing!” she urged.

Raine paused his turning of the door handle. “What?”

“I’ve always wondered but I’ve always forgotten to ask until after you had left,” the Queen said, her curiosity open on her features. “Why Raine Willows?”

Raine barked a laugh as he placed his free hand into his pocket. “Really?” the Queen nodded, an amused smile on her lips. “Well I don’t know what to tell you Liz,” he continued, “I was sat under a willow in the rain.”

The Queen’s eyes widened. “ _That’s it?_ ”

Raine laughed. “Yep,” he said, popping the ‘p’, “nothing mysterious about it. I’ll catch you later dear.”

She waved him off as he slipped out the door. Kingsley was sat in a chair too small for him, his fine blue robes completely drowned the inadequate furniture. Raine struggled to keep from laughing at the particularly chastened aura that surrounded the Minister.

“Ready?” Raine asked.

Kingsley jerked in surprise and hastened to stand from his seat. “How do you – what the – how?” He hissed as they began to follow a particularly bored looking Peter toward the floo.

“We go way back,” Raine replied easily. “Where to next?”

Kingsley gave him a disbelieving look. “We still have a lot to discus-”

“Exactly, which is why I’m coming with you because you are clearly an inept bumbling idiot and I now need to babysit you to make sure you’re not speaking to somebody you shouldn’t be. So,” he said, fixing the Minister with a serious look, “where to?”

Kingsley huffed. “Azkaban.”

Raine looked to the gilded ceiling in exasperation. “And why are you going there?”

“Lucius Malfoy has made a deal to share information,” Kingsley replied defensively.

Raine paused before he hung his head in defeat.

“Fine,” he said sternly, pointing a long finger at the Minister, “but know that this, right here, is the reason why I’m babysitting you.”

Kingsley took a breath to make his defence but Raine held his hand up to his face.

“No, don’t even try,” he said warningly, as he turned towards the floo and a glowering Peter.

“Lovely to see you, as usual, you ray of sunshine,” Raine quipped as Kingsley stepped into the grate and disappeared into the flames.

With one final grin, Raine followed him.

“Azkaban.”

**_12:47 pm, 13_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September, 1999 - Azkaban Prison, North Sea_ **

The sun had risen twice.

Two times the infernal ball in the sky had climbed its way to its peak.

_TWO!_

Lucius scowled at the glowing point of light that was cowardly hidden behind the blanket of grey.

_Like that bastard Minister,_ he thought savagely as he set about for the seventy-third circumference of the cell. His filthy feet slapped against the cold stone floor as he demonstrated his frustration at the world through his footsteps. Because that was the thing, being cooped up in the cell, one tended to pace like a caged wild animal, and really, could it be held against him if he lashed out at a guard or two?

No.

The answer is no.

Lucius wasn’t certain, but he was sure there was a guard on his door; he kept seeing shadows move in the gap underneath. He supposed it may have something to do with the fact he stabbed the guard’s hand who had given him breakfast through the gap in the door the morning prior, but the guard only had himself to blame. Lucius had asked for an audience with the Minister. The Minister had yet to appear. Ergo, Lucius was well within his right to show his displeasure at his situation.

And to cap it all, they had refused to give him cutlery since.

“Not that I NEED IT ANYWAY!” he shouted at the silent cell door. He paused his pacing and looked expectantly at the entryway.

The door didn’t move.

Nor did it make a sound.

“That’s what I thought,” Lucius sneered at the door before he resumed his pacing once again.

_Honestly,_ those people, sitting in their ivory towers passing judgement on him, telling him that his behaviour and choices and beliefs were bad, were so _abhorrent_ that he was deemed unworthy to live amongst them.

And yet!

The minute he behaved the way that the powers that be wanted him to - all needlessly sacrificing and nauseatingly righteous; the minute he offered to tell everything they wanted to know…well… they had disappeared hadn’t they. Slithered away like the snakes they believed him to be, hissing their propaganda lies.

“Well, FUCK YOU!” he shouted as he whirled back to the door, spittle flying from his mouth.

**Clunk.**

Lucius flinched at the abrasive sound. His lank hair fell into his face and swayed with every ragged breath he took.

“That seems entirely unreasonable Mr Malfoy,” said a gaunt, tall man with eyes as dark as his hair strode into the cell. Behind him stood Kingsley Shacklebolt, who eyed his companion with exasperation.

“Mr Malfoy,” the Minister said in a professionally clipped tone as he too stepped into Lucius’ humble abode.

“You’re late,” Lucius drawled.

Shacklebolt raised an imperious brow as he assessed Lucius from under the brim of his ridiculous hat.

“Really,” Shacklebolt said, smirking. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you Mr Malfoy, did you have other appointments waiting?”

Lucius felt a throb of pain burst behind his eye as he ground his teeth.

_It would be so easy to just…_

“Perhaps it would be best, if you didn’t take that tone with me, Minister?” Lucius sang. He was aware of the dark man prowling silently behind him.

Shacklebolt snorted. “And why is that?”

“Because you have a plague upon your house,” Lucius said with vicious delight.

“Do I?” Shacklebolt replied magnanimously, his tone laced with condescension. “How so?”

Lucius’ smile twisted his lips. “You are so set on your post-war purge of all the Death Eaters, you have no idea what’s been lying in wait, creeping like a mould, for centuries.”

Shacklebolt narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about Malfoy? I don’t have time for games.”

“The Enlightened.”

Lucius whipped his head around to stare in fear at the gaunt, silent man.

“How do you know that term?” he hissed as a wave of sudden panic washed over him.

Had he been wrong?

Did they know?

Had they sent a spy to assassinate him?

“I’ve heard the term being thrown around a lot these past few days,” the man said, his black eyes piercing. “Do you know who they are?”

“Wait,” Shacklebolt said, “earlier…” he petered off, his eyes glancing between Lucius and the stranger who was nodding to the Minister.

“Mr Malfoy, what do you want in exchange for your information?” Shacklebolt asked, his eyes still bouncing between the two of them.

“To pay reparations in standing for serving the rest of my sentence,” Lucius stated plainly and business-like; he felt as if he were pulling on a familiar pair of gloves.

Shacklebolt continued to look eagerly between the two of them. “I shall agree to set a hearing,” he replied diplomatically.

Lucius baulked.

He hadn’t expected that to work.

_Always state your price higher than what you want, so as to make what you want seem like the more reasonable option,_ his father used to drill into him when they would pour over contract negotiations.

_They must be desperate…_

Lucius pushed his lank hair from his face and offered his minimal seating options to his guests. Shacklebolt took the chair, his companion chose to settle against the wall and Lucius lounged upon the palette.

“They refer to themselves as The Enlightened as some sort of familial wank to stroke their egos,” Lucius stated.

The dark stranger raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because they think themselves better.”

Shacklebolt frowned. “Like the Death Eaters and the blood prejudice?”

“No, it’s about knowledge,” Lucius stated, as if he were teaching a class. “To the Death Eaters, power was power, status was power – it’s a blood given right.” Shacklebolt narrowed his gaze; Lucius shrugged. “I’m just explaining the motivation. To the Enlightened, knowledge is power. Not status, not blood. They’re composed of all walks of life: muggle, magical, creature, Kings and cooks. It doesn’t matter who you are, it’s what you know.”

The stranger swiped a thumb over his bottom lip as he frowned at Lucius as if he were trying to work out a puzzle.

“Why are you telling us this?” he asked.

Lucius grinned murderously. “Because they went after my son and I’ll bet,” he fixed Shacklebolt with a deadly glare, “they did it through you.”

Shacklebolt frowned in derision.

“The hearing and the Bylaw,” said the stranger; Lucius nodded approvingly. “Gale Fawley?” the stranger asked.

Lucius clapped his applause. “Well done my boy!” he said, his manic smile wide. “I like him,” he said in a stage-whisper to Shacklebolt who looked in alarm between the two of them.

“These Enlightened are on the Wizengamot?” Shacklebolt asked in growing horror.

“A Shakespearean tragedy isn’t it?” the stranger said dryly.

“But why?” Shacklebolt said in confusion as he turned back to Lucius. “What do they want with Draco?”

Lucius sniffed derisively as he tucked his hair behind his ear. “Ironically, they want his blood.”

“How do you know that?” the Minister asked.

“I don’t _know_ it,” Lucius hissed, suddenly furious, “because I’m locked up in this blasted cell aren’t I.”

“Then why do you suspect that to be the case?” the stranger amended.

Lucius liked him.

“Because there’s always been the theory of what it would take to truly release magic into the world,” Lucius said benevolently. “Well, that’s what the Malfoys have always perceived the theory as, others have perceived the same teachings as a dismantling of structured society, which is just poppy-cock,” he said dismissively.

Shacklebolt leant back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “And how long have the Malfoy’s been a part of this group?”

“Since its inception in the seventeenth century,” Lucius said simply. “We have our fingers in many pies, so to speak.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Shacklebolt growled.

“You said that ‘The Enlightened’ was just what they refer to themselves as,” said the stranger, ignoring the fraught tension. “Who are they then?”

“Rosicrucian,” said Lucius. “They were a sect of the Free Masons who broke away in search of proving the existence of the esoteric truth within the ancient past.” He grinned wide, “They started out with just philosophical differences in their muggle beliefs about their religion. But then the further they dug, the more truth they found. They were the secret hub for the alchemical pursuit in Western Europe. The brotherhood hid the alchemists from the church.”

Shacklebolt frowned. “What do they want then? What do they want with Draco?”

“They want what they have always wanted – Enlightenment.” Lucius cleared his throat and recited with gravitas, “We, the Deputies of the Higher College of the Rose-Croix, do make our stay, visibly and invisibly, in this city. The thoughts attached to the real desire of the seeker will lead us to him and him to us.”

The cell was silent.

The stranger shifted his weight uneasily. “Who is he?”

“She.”

“Pardon?” the stranger replied.

“It’s a 'she' we think,” said Lucius. “While the Rosicrucians were onto something and they have done some magnificent things, this part was an annoying layover from their Masonic heritage. It’s a she.”

The stranger nodded in understanding. “Makes sense, who is she then?”

“She is the Indefinite,” Lucius stated. “Or at least that the scripture has been understood.”

“What scripture?” Shacklebolt asked.

“I believe it was Anaximander, though it may have been Thales,” Lucius replied.

The Minister sighed as he scrubbed his weary eyes. “Who?”

“Greek scholars, do you know nothing?” Lucius said disparagingly.

“Right, of course,” said Shacklebolt, who then turned to the stranger. “You believe this?”

“Yes,” the stranger replied. “Where does your son figure into this?” he said, fixing his attention to Lucius.

Lucius definitely liked him.

“Well, there were whispers over the years amongst the alchemists, that there was a way to bottle ‘the Indefinite’. So that was their pursuit. If you follow the Greek scriptures, ‘The Indefinite’ comes from the understanding that there is an underlying unity in everything, but there was never a way to pin what this connection was. So they believed it was water in the beginning,” Lucius shifted on his palette to cross his filthy legs. “If water gives pre-eminence to life, then the other elements must do too. But then where do the elements come from?” He looked expectantly at the blank faces before him. “The indefinite, or Aperion depending on where you look. The universe came into being for all the elements and their opposites, which all came from Aperion, the Indefinite.”

“Balance,” said the stranger quietly.

“Exactly,” Lucius agreed emphatically. “The theory is, is that if all things are balanced, then there is no negative void room for Aperion. She is the dark mother after all, she cannot live in the light with her elemental energies.”

Shacklebolt scoffed. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Lucius replied seriously.

“Well, yes, obviously this is all nonsense,” he looked to the stranger. “Right?”

The stranger scraped a hand through his hair. “No, the logic follows.”

“Well yes the logic follows, but we’re not seriously believing that there is some deity out there? Some dark mother?” Shacklebolt scoffed.

“Why not?” the stranger replied. “You have no idea what walks this earth.”

“Not gods!” Shacklebolt cried.

“Gods are a muggle creation to explain the fantastic,” the stranger hissed, his features twisting sudden rage. “For fuck sake Kingsley, we were Gods to them at one point!”

Shacklebolt blanched at the stranger’s outburst. “Yeah but…” he tried weakly.

The stranger spun back to Lucius; he was radiating such waves of fury that Lucius had a sudden trepidation to speak.

“What does this have to do with your son?”

“Everything,” Lucius said. “The reason why the Malfoy’s have always had a high standing within the Rosicrucian society is because of our blood.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Shacklebolt groaned.

“Blood is valuable, no matter how you resent it Minister,” Lucius spat. “Our ancestor, Marcellus was a Vilenjak in the Alpine tribe.”

Lucius watched in amusement at the two very different reactions.

The Minister frowned in confusion and asked: “a what?”

While the stranger sunk down onto his haunches, his head in his heads, an aura of despair growing around him.

“Tell me you didn’t tell them that you have Veela blood in your veins Malfoy,” the stranger groaned.

“I didn’t,” Lucius said loftily, “the other Lucius did.”

The stranger lifted his head with a cocked brow.

“Lucius the first,” Lucius amended. “Alive in the seventeenth century. He used his blood as a means to command the alchemists. By that point, Vilenjak were few and far between, so keeping the Malfoy line close just in case they had an inheritance became mandatory.”

“Does someone want to explain what a Vilenjak is?” Shacklebolt snapped.

“Male Veela,” the stranger croaked.

“Extinct beings who possess air elemental magic,” Lucius supplied. “Well…extinct until recently.”

Lucius watched the realisation dawn on the Minister’s face.

“So what are they going to want to do then?” he asked urgently. “Why bother with the boy?”

“Well it’s a basic equation dear fellow,” Lucius drawled. “The dark mother, the indefinite, cannot exist on this plane because there is no void space – there is balance.”

“Balance that is kept by the elements and their opposites,” the strangers grumbled from his still hunched position.

“Exactly,” Lucius nodded approvingly. “So in order to make void space, you have to first cultivate the right environment, and then second, dismiss the elements.”

“Thus breaking the balance,” the stranger concluded.

Shacklebolt looked between the two of them.

“So what’s the right environment for this Aperion thing?” he asked.

Lucius sucked on his tooth in thought. “Well if you abide the doctrine that she is the dark mother, then she will come in the guise of chaos, cultural discontinuity and addiction.”

“Fuck,” the stranger hissed. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

The Minister looked at him. “How do you mean?”

“Oh I don’t know, how about the whole meeting we just had where it was decided you had a few days before there was complete exposure of the magical world, the muggle world is rioting and creatures have gone to war with us...” the stranger gestured wildly with his hands. “Maybe that?”

“Oh,” replied Shacklebolt uneasily. He frowned in thought before turning back to Lucius.

“When you say dismiss the elements you mean…?”

“I mean,” Lucius said darkly, “they’re going to sacrifice my son.”

**_11:11 am, 13_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September 1999 – Penthouse, Hyde Park Gardens, London, UK_ **

The chair was empty.

It was cruel and twisted that Pansy had only had all of her boys home for two days. She blew gently on to her tea as she watched Draco’s silhouette through the French doors. Blaise was silent beside her; the bags under his eyes were dark with exhaustion.

None of them had slept.

After they had realised that Theo had disappeared with Eris Iskandar, Draco had demanded a full briefing of everything that had been going on.

_“Why did you keep this from me?”_ Draco had hissed as he stood in Blaise’s office, his teeth sharpening to fangs.

Pansy had tried to warn Blaise but as per usual, he was reliably headstrong when it came to a fight with Draco.

They had always been the same: where everything had been handed to Draco, making him the natural leader _because_ he was a Malfoy, Blaise had had to earn his leadership.

The curse of Old Money versus New.

Draco had never seen it, no matter how many times she and Theo had explained it to him over the years after he got into it _once again_ with Blaise.

Pansy looked across from her to Theo’s deafeningly silent chair.

_“You'd just gotten out of Azkaban Draco!”_ Blaise had yelled in exasperation. _“What were we supposed to do? Nice to see you’re barely alive, know you’ve got a lot on mate, but welcome to the shit show!”_

There wasn’t a lot that frightened Pansy these days. After Hogwarts, she had finally stood up to her mother – her main source of fear for all of those years. The woman had made it her life’s work to weave it into the tapestry of Pansy’s soul to seek external validation to justify her existence, to only then deprive her of it. The older Pansy had gotten in her school years, the more starved of it she had become; bitter and twisted as others grew strong enough to stand on their own two feet, while she was shunned like a cast-off.

And the more she strained for that sunlight, the more she was treated like a weed – pointless and not worth saving.

So she had told her mother that she wanted nothing more to do with the family and had turned up on Blaise’s doorstep – who had happened to be in the midst of a heated row with his own mother.

When they had first made Muggle London their home, Pansy had been terrified.

The Muggles were everywhere!

But over time, she became less afraid of the automatic doors that guarded the entrance of every shop; over time she flinched less at the outrageous sounds of their motorised vehicles. She had even spoken to a Muggle or two.

That had started with Grace – the nine-year-old from Surrey.

Her parents had been murdered by _‘a man in a mask with a flashing stick’_. Pansy had been sat outside her favourite patisserie in Soho when the small child had approached and announced her life story, all for the sake of asking for a single pound to buy a sausage roll from Greggs.

Through Grace, Pansy had met Toby.

Through Toby, she had met Nathaniel.

Nathaniel brought with him Simon, Tyler, Alexa, Lucy and Thomas.

Thomas had brought with him the first little wizard – Charlie (muggleborn).

Charlies’s little hand had curled around Pansy’s manicured finger and he had forcefully dragged her to meet the rest. She had picked her way carefully through the rundown theatre, trying gainfully to follow the children’s path. When she had finally stepped out on the creaking floorboards of the stage, she had peered up through the floating dust motes to the wide-eyes faces of thirty-seven children.

Pansy went to Gringotts the next day and promptly withdrew and converted her dowry. By that afternoon, she had bought the theatre and hired contractors for complete renovations and had begun the search for a live-in Nanny – Ms Fairfax. A kind older woman who made the best blueberry muffins that Pansy had ever denied tasting.

About that time, Blaise, Theo and herself decided they needed income – what with their forty-eight new mouths for feed. It wouldn’t be long now until that number would begin to diminish. Charlie and Grace would be receiving their Hogwarts letters in the coming year and Pansy couldn’t decide if she was proud or horrified of this fact.

Thus Soteria had been founded and their new criminal enterprise quickly followed.

It hadn’t been long before Pansy had realised that she needed to wise up. Between being in the club and chasing the feral Little Mice across London, she had experienced a few near misses with over-zealous men.

The final straw was when she had been dragged down an alley in Camden.

Thankfully, Theo had been meeting her and so was with her in seconds but still… Pansy decided that day, that she would never be the victim of fear again.

Too often it had ruled her choices or trapped her voice.

She had enrolled herself the next day in Krav Maga lessons.

Which led to Aikido.

Which led to Jiu-Jitsu.

As it turned out, Pansy was a natural.

And so she had taken everything that her mother had taught her and combined it with what Muggle London had taught her and she had used it to take her first life. A Gangster hit: rival gangs of the London docks pay handsomely for their competition to be quietly removed.

Thus Pansy had found her niche.

The Mice spied.

Blaise, sold.

Theo, stole.

Pansy, killed.

And they all waited for Draco.

So it had been a long while since she had felt fear. She commanded her space, her army, her body and the knife she held between her fingers.

Until Draco had lost his temper.

_“If you had told me, instead of fucking pissing about, then I wouldn’t have left him on his FUCKING OWN!”_ He had bellowed as his wings had unfurled high above his head. Pansy had bitten back a demeaning yelp of surprise as she watched the black wings spread wide across the office. Draco’s white hair gleamed in the firelight as he had leant menacingly across the table, his silver eyes burning with fury.

_“You will tell me everything about this fucking manuscript Blaise, who else knows?”_

That was the moment Pansy knew Blaise had been trying to avoid.

Pansy took another sip of her tea as her eyes drifted to Theo’s empty chair again.

Draco hadn’t taken the news of Potter’s involvement very well.

Blaise now needed a new desk.

“What’s your plan today?” Blaise rasped, his voice as bleak as his drawn face.

Whilst Draco had taken to venting his disapproval of Potter’s new involvement in Theo’s life, Pansy had slipped from the room to the security offices.

 _“Here they are,”_ Terrance the ex-skinhead-secret-marshmallow Security Guard had said, as he pointed a thick tattooed finger to the grainy screen. Pansy had watched as a clearly intoxicated Theo had swayed dangerously, clinging to Iskandar’s shoulders as she had walked him from the club. She followed their path through the club until they had appeared out on the street. They had stood on the curb, with Theo flailing his arms excited as he yammered on about something, until a black Merc had pulled up. In the blink of an eye, Theo was gone.

 _“Can we get the reg?”_ Pansy had asked, her eyes focused on the last frame of Theo before he disappeared into the darkness of the car.

Terrance had run a hand down his face and scrubbed and the shadow on his jawline. “ _I gotta guy. I’ll give ‘im a call now._ ”

“I’m chasing up a few leads,” Pansy said, as she dragged her eyes from the empty chair to the still silhouette in the rain. “But whilst I wait for them to come through, I promised the kids to swing by today – you?” she asked as she looked back to Blaise.

He shrugged despondently as he idly twirled the butter knife between his fingers.

“I think I need to get to the club but…” His worried brown eyes flicked to Draco’s still form outside.

Pansy watched the crease etch between his brow as he worried at the thought that flitted across his mind. 

“Talk to him,” Pansy said softly.

The corner of Blaise’s mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “You always do that.”

She blanched. “Do what?”

“Fix us,” he replied simply.

She had a reply prepared on her tongue: appropriately demure and congenial but dismissive of the compliment.

But then Blaise looked at her, his brown eyes wide with exhaustion and worry. His face was that of a young boy wearing a man’s suit. She leant across the table and curled her hand around his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I always will,” she said with a slight smile.

He brushed his thumb over her fingers as he stood.

“Tell Ms Fairfax that I’m craving the cookies,” he said as he leaned down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

“I shall,” Pansy replied with a smile. Blaise stepped back to make room for her. “And you go play nice,” she continued, tapping him affectionately on the shoulder as she passed him. She picked up her coat that she had draped over the back of the sofa and turned to watch over her shoulder as she pulled it over her arms.

Blaise had made his way to the French doors. He was stood, his hand paused on the door handle. She watched quietly as he bowed his head, collecting himself. Her lips tilted with pride as he nodded to himself, he pushed the door handle and stepped into the rain.

She watched as Blaise’s silhouette stood shoulder to shoulder with Draco’s taller one. It wasn’t until Draco bowed his own head, that Pansy grinned in satisfaction.

She picked up her wand and with a flick, disappeared with a **crack** , only to appear moments later in an entry parlour that smelled strongly of bacon. She wrinkled her nose as she followed the scent deeper into the winding corridors of the renovated theatre. As she grew closer, she could hear the familiar clamour of the Mice’s breakfast morning chatter.

As she stepped through the door, she was greeted with the usual raucous celebration.

“Pans!” was squeaked and squawked from around children who surrounded the central island. She staggered slightly as she felt a small body rush to her, his small arms winding around her waist.

“Good morning,” she said affectionately to the group as she ran a gentle hand over Charlie’s head. “Bacon today?”

“Of course dear!” Ms Fairfax affirmed from where she bustled by the crowded hob.

Ms Fairfax was a stately woman who at first glance, had reminded Pansy of her own etiquette teacher and Nannies growing up. This had immediately turned her from the idea of hiring the older woman. But then Ms Fairfax had spoken her kind words that sang from her warm heart and Pansy had fallen in love with her.

Now, Pansy couldn’t imagine her without the gentle, warm Nanny.

“Pans, I did the thing!” Charlie said excitedly as he beamed up at her. “I got Thomas in the hold!”

“That’s great,” Pansy said enthusiastically as she smiled in uncertainty to Ms Fairfax who turned with a glare.

“Damn near killed him to, lad!” the elder woman chided as she stopped Toby from attempting to stick a bacon rind up his nose.

Pansy pursed her lips in an attempt to stop herself from laughing at Charlie’s complete lack of contrition.

“While I am happy that you’re practising, what was the promise you made?” she said sternly.

As if reciting an oath, Charlie stood to attention.

“Only ever use the things you teach me if I need to, not if I want to,” he sang; he looked up expectantly once he had finished.

“Exactly, so what did Toby do that meant you needed to practice the hold on him?” Pansy said. She would never say that she had a favourite amongst the Mice…

But talking to Charlie was like talking to Theo. She could see the same wily tenacity and independence that had always lurked in Theo’s blue eyes, reflected back at her in Charlie’s brown ones. The only difference between the two was where Theo had had his light dimmed from the darkness of his father, Charlie’s shone bright and unchecked; an innocence unmarred by experience.

“He didn’t do nothing, I was just practising,” Charlie urged as he scraped his foot along the floor.

Pansy quirked her brow expectantly.

Charlie sighed and mumbled something into his chest.

“What was that?” Pansy said.

“He changed the channel when I was watching TV,” Charlie said miserably, before perking up suddenly. “So you see? I needed to!”

Pansy curled her lips between her teeth to stop herself from laughing as she looked to Ms Fairfax in askance who was rolling her eyes.

“You’re a menace child,” the elder woman chided to Charlie, cuffing him gently around the ears. “Eat your sandwiches, come on.”

“He just wants to be like you,” Ms Fairfax added quietly to Pansy as they watched Charlie scramble up the barstool to sit at the island. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Pansy knew this. But the idea of being a role model to someone so young and impressionable was simultaneously so alien and terrifying, that she completely refused to acknowledge its existence. 

“How is everything?” Pansy replied, swiftly changing the subject.

“As good as can be dear,” Ms Fairfax said with a weary sigh. “Terrance is staying here at the minute; the rioting started a few streets over the other night and you know how he gets when it involves the kids.”

Pansy nodded in agreement as she struggled to keep a straight face.

Ms Fairfax and Terrance the Marshmallow had been in some strange sort of dance with each other since the day they met at one of Blaise’s ‘Soteria family dinners’. He started the tradition not long after the club had opened. One day he had called a meeting and had ordered a selection of pizzas from Princi’s down the road. Thus starting the bi-weekly gathering where all the dancers and barmen, accountants, guards, Mice and affiliates, relaxed without the pressures of the public and indulged in an inordinate amount of carbs.

The kitchen door opened behind Pansy, and she looked up to see the man-in-question start at her presence.

“You’re not having my bacon,” Terrance said by way of greeting Pansy as he ruffled Nathaniel’s hair.

“Morning to you sunshine,” she replied with a grin. “Any luck on those tapes?”

“What tapes?” Charlie asked from the table.

Ms Fairfax bopped his nose with a dishcloth as she placed a jug of juice on the table. “Never you mind, now eat.”

“I just got off the phone actually with my guy,” Terrance said as he nabbed Grace’s crusts from her plate. “He said he’s managed to track the warehouse to - hang on... ” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

“Unit one-B, The Cut, just off the road that connects South Bank and Waterloo,” he read aloud. “Not far from the underground,” he added.

Pansy nodded. “Not far from us either.”

“What’s there?” Charlie piped up again.

“Never you mind,” Terrance said dismissively before turning back to Pansy. “So what’s the plan?”

“May we be excused?” Grace asked.

Pansy looked over the table and noted the clear plates as her mind whirled to formulate a plan.

It wasn’t far.

Theo was in reach.

_Potentially – they might have moved him on_ , she amended as the Mice skipped from the room in a chaotic gaggle.

Ms Fairfax set down a cup of coffee and a small bacon sandwich in front of Pansy who opened her mouth to object.

“I don’t want to hear it,” the elder woman said kindly. “I know that look, and you look like you haven’t slept. So, eat, drink so you have _some_ energy for whatever you’re scheming.”

The growl of Pansy’s stomach overrode her knee jerk reaction to rebel against parental authority.

“So what’s the plan?” Terrance asked as she bit in the sandwich.

“I’m going to eat this,” Pansy said, chewing her food behind a raised hand, “then go get Theo back.” She washed down her mouthful with a swig of her tea. “Well, at least see if he’s still there.”

Terrance nodded as his eyes followed Ms Fairfax around the kitchen as she tidied. “Do you want company?” he asked.

Pansy smirked. “I appreciate it old man but I’ll be fine.”

Terrance snorted. “The fuck are you callin’ old man?”

Pansy was suddenly very attentively chewing her sandwich, so much so she was unable to provide an answer, much to Terrance’s amusement.

It wasn’t long until her plate was clear. She quickly said her goodbyes to the pair, with a promise to check-in once she was back safe. She slipped through the winding halls of the old theatre, following the sounds of the children’s voices. They were all gathered in the living room, huddled around the TV.

“I’m off kids,” she said to a chorus of ‘byes.’

Pansy was about to leave when she paused.

“Grace,” she called to the little girl. “Where did Charlie go?”

Grace shrugged. “He said he was going to get something.”

Pansy frowned. “Right, well tell him I said goodbye and to behave yeah?”

The girl nodded emphatically and turned back to the TV. Pansy stood for a moment, watching the kids sit peacefully together. Over the last couple of years, she had grown to love them. She had had to become tougher for them, smarter for them. After what the war had done to them, and their families and her own small role in it, she felt beholden to giving the children the best lives that she possibly could. Meaning that they would want for nothing, and that they would know every trick that she could teach them. She was determined that these kids would be safe on the streets that they would one day own, if she had her way.

With a small smile, Pansy turned to leave. As she got to the foyer, she pulled her wand from her pocket and disappeared with a **crack** , only to reappear moments later in the alley hidden away next to Waterloo station. She pulled her coat tight around her as she exited out onto the street, careful to avoid the construction workers who were still working on repairing the building. With ease, Pansy melted into the crowd and was swept along Waterloo road. She made a left and cut across the traffic until she saw The Old Vic looming in the distance. A self-satisfied grin spread across her lips. After all this time, she had finally learned how to navigate Muggle London well.

The Old Vic stood like a sentinel guard on the corner of The Cut.

She slipped down the street, keeping a keen eye on the signs posted on the buildings.

_Unit nine._

_Unit seven._

_Unit five._

_Unit on-_

She walked straight past it, eyeing the entrance casually. It was a plain building, looking more akin to a warehouse than an office building or house that one would usually see in that part of town. There were no windows, only a huge garage door that was locked by a heavy padlock and chains.

She glanced over her shoulder and only saw that the street was populated by one person other than herself: an elderly man walking his poodle.

She slipped around the side of the building – again, no windows. The building went back a way.

Pansy was just about to turn back when she rounded a corner and saw a basement hatch.

A basement hatch that was open.

The building it seemed, backed onto a delivery alley. She peered through the hatch and saw nothing but still darkness inside. Pushing hesitation aside, she stepped onto the old wooden stairs with silent footsteps.

By the time she had gotten to the bottom of the stairs, Pansy’s eyes had somewhat adjusted to the gloom. She could see the basic cleaning utensils - mops and brooms; the walls were lined with an array of colourful cleaning bottles with garish labels.

Her boots scraped loudly against the bare concrete as she shifted her weight. Her ears pricked, listening for any sign of movement.

Pansy was on edge regardless of the fact that she was hunting the people who had taken Theo. To leave a service hatch open like that…

She stepped towards the door and listened.

Silence.

Carefully, she creaked it open and peered through the gap. She was greeted with a long, barren service tunnel with flickering sterile electric lights. Pansy’s nose crinkled at the stale air as she stepped out. Quickly, not wanting to get caught in the open, she slipped down the corridor. At the end, she followed the bend to the left. It was five long minutes before the tunnels showed any signs of rising.

She paused at the base of a staircase, which led to a closed door.

 _Ominous,_ she thought as she collected herself. At worse, she reasoned, she had broken into some industrial warehouse.

_At best, I’ll find Th-_

Pansy again, paused at the door and listened.

She could hear the echo of voices bouncing off of empty walls, like the voices ghosts in a tomb.

She turned the handle, opening the door slightly. The voices weren’t much clearer. She could make out maybe ten or so male voices and one higher one.

Upon seeing no signs of life as she peered through the crack, Pansy slipped out into the room. It looked like she was in an office – albeit a temporary one. Files were haphazardly thrown on cheap desks. The filing system was a series of boxes that were overflowing with what looked like shipping manifests. As she crossed the room, her gaze snagged on a series of leather-bound books:

_The Records of Zosmos of Panopolis_

_Paracelsus’ Final Notes_

_Jean Baptista Van Helmont – The theory of the alchemical child_

Pansy frowned at the displacement of something extraordinary amongst the ordinary.

**BANG**

Pansy ducked, wide-eyed. The bang had come from outside the office where she could now hear a raucous amount of laughing.

Repeating her earlier action, she cracked the office door to check the coast was clear before slipping out into a narrow corridor with a bend at the end.

The closer she got the bend, the clearer the voices became.

And then she heard a sound that made her blood run cold and her heart clench with unmitigated terror. She stopped at the bend and tried to listen over the pounding pulse in her ears. She peered around the corner, willing her mind to be deceiving her.

Stood in the centre of the garage where a group of men, who were sneering with twisted amusement at the man in the centre who hand pinned a struggling Charlie in his grasp.

She whipped back around the corner to hide her gasp of horror as her heart threatened to break free from her chest. Her palms began to sweat and she dragged air into her constricting lungs.

_How did he…_ The memory of his eager eyes watching in rapt attention at breakfast flashed in her mind’s eye.

_Fucking kid,_ she thought as memory after memory of her teaching him how to sneak and spy played like a reel. “ _He just wants to be like you,”_ Ms Fairfax’s voice echoed in her head.

“No!” She heard Charlie yell as the men’s laughter rose.

Pansy grimaced as she ground her teeth. She clenched her fist and beat it against the wall behind her as she grounded herself. She slowed her breathing and willed her heart to calm as she relaxed the tension in her body.

_If emotion is clouding your judgement, rely on the process,_ her Master used to repeat when she would gripe at a Kata.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” a taunting voice sang from the garage to a chorus of laughter.

“No! There’s no one here! I’m by myself! Let. Me. _Go!”_ Pansy heard Charlie struggle against his captor.

“If you don’t show yourself, I’ll snap this little boy's neck,” the voice continued over the sounds of more laughter.

_Fuck._

With one last breath and settling of her shoulders, Pansy stepped out into full view.

The room opened up in a huge warehouse garage - Unit one B. Lining the walls of the expansive room were shipping crates of all shapes and sizes, that towered high and were several layers deep. In amongst the few cars that were parked, she could see the black car that looked similar to the one Theo had got into.

“Ha! Told you!” laughed the man who held Charlie who had stilled as if petrified, his wide eyes locked on Pansy. She raised her arms as she entered the room, her hands held out in surrender. She could count eight men gathered in a loose circle around the room, all dressed in various states of fashion from tracksuits to Armani; she looked at the man behind Charlie. His face was gnarled with a combination of malice and scars as he sneered at her.

“Aren’t you a pretty one,” he drawled, his accent was thick around his words.

The group parted as Pansy grew closer; one by one the men began to surround her.

“Let the boy go,” she said evenly as she locked eyes with the scarred man. His mouth quirked up into an ugly grin.

“Whatever you say,” he said glibly as he shunted Charlie’s small body to the right. 

Pansy barely had time to notice who grabbed him next before the first attacker was on her. Her ears pricked to the heavy footsteps approaching from behind. She tipped forward and snapped into a pirouette and brought her leg high.

She heard the snap of bone before she made her full rotation and she passively noticed the first attacker stagger away. Her hair had only just bounced into her eyes from the turn as she bent back, dodging the oncoming hand that made to grab her throat. Effortlessly, she secured the wrist in her own hand and threw her weight against the back of the elbow. With a sharp yelp and heavy thunk, she dropped the limp wrist and brought her elbow up to connect with the man’s face.

Movement caught her eye.

She stepped forward and around, to put the man with the broken elbow between her and goon rushing her.

Her glanced left and right, scanning quickly in the bare seconds to pinpoint Charlie.

For a brief moment, their eyes met. His wide-eyed and terrified as he struggled against the thick hands against his chest.

Pansy bared her teeth and nashed them meaningfully as she pulled her wand from her pocket.

Like a cry of warning up the line, she heard “WITCH” echo around the room.

 _“Shariha Eazam,”_ she hissed, pouring as much venom as she could into its utterance. The tip of her wand flashed red as she arched it towards the goon in front of her who had brushed aside the man with a broken elbow. In seconds, the goon fell to his knees, blood erupting from his mouth.

“ _Uitet harenas!_ ”

Pansy turned in alarm toward the voice that uttered the spell just as the ground beneath feet gave way. The wizard grinned with vicious delight as he twisted his wand and drew breath to cast again.

“ _Confrigo,”_ Pansy snapped as she sliced her wand across the line of crates behind the wizard. The floor instantly solidified as the wizard was thrown off his feet from the force of the deafening explosion that released a barrage of splintered wood in every direction.

She spun as she curled defensively from the deadly volley. _“Protego,”_ she casted desperately over Charlie and his captor just as a shard sliced her cheek. She had a second to appreciate the protective ward that glimmered into existence over its intended target before blinding pain bloomed from her side and she was knocked off balance from the force of the explosion.

Her wand flew from her fingers as she landed heavily on the ground.

A high pitched ringing resounded in her ears as Pansy raised her head, blinking her vision into focus. Before she could move, she felt something slither up her back, over her shoulder and secure itself around her neck and squeeze.

She choked.

Her lungs burned as they tried desperately to drag in air.

Her nails clawed uselessly at the vine around her throat.

_Wand._

Her vision darkened at the corner.

She reached.

Her fingers scrabbled against the concrete floor, digging dirt under her nails as she tried to pull herself toward her wand.

The bind tightened around her neck, squeezing, crushing mercilessly.

She felt the rapid pulse of her heart ricochet in her skull.

The roar of her blood deafened her ears.

Just

A

Little

Closer…

With a final shunt, her fingertips slipped over the holly wood wand. She flipped onto her back and pointed her wand between her knees to the wizard who laughed maliciously as he approached. She poured all her will and intention through her wand and in desperation wordlessly cast _Bombarda._

The wizard flew back with a thud, releasing the vines from around Pansy’s neck. She curled, gasping violently as her nails scraped desperately against the concrete in an attempt to ground herself.

She heard movement.

“Fuck,” she gasped as she stood on shaky legs, the pain in her side was burning with every heave of her chest.

She raised her head to spot her next target.

Charlie and his capture were safe.

Three men were bleeding onto the floor from their wounds.

The wizard wasn’t moving.

A gun cocked behind her.

Without wasting a second, Pansy twisted her wand and felt the pull at her navel. With a booming **crack** in the confined space, she reappeared at the entrance of the garage. In front of her stood a man who held a pistol out before him. He span wildly, his aim chaotic as he whirled toward her.

In one smooth action, Pansy placed her wand between her teeth and reached. One hand curled around the barrel of the gun while she twisted her body to cover the butt with her other. In one smooth slip, she flipped the nuzzle to point towards the man as she dragged the gun from his body. In no time, she replaced his finger on the trigger with her, and before he could fully straighten, she planted the nuzzle to his neck and pulled the trigger.

She barely had seconds before a second shot whizzed past her head.

Using the man who was clutching at his neck for cover, she sighted her next three targets as they popped out from behind a car.

Pansy passed the gun to the hand that held the increasingly heavy-dead weight of a body-shield, and pulled her wand from her teeth. Her breath was strained with exertion as she fought to keep the body-shield in place.

“ _Reducto,_ ” she barked and watched with satisfaction as the car lit up in a blue-white flash before disintegrating to ash. The shock caused the men who were using it for cover to stumble back, but not completely lose their footing.

She felt the **thunk** of two bullets jolt the body-shield she held as she performed the intricate wand wave and casted, “ _Expulso._ ”

A burst of blue light shot from her wand, hitting the three men with a force that threw them at speed into the wall behind them.

The sound of heavy, limp bodies falling unconsciously to the floor was as final as the release of the gallows. Pansy finally released her body-shield with a gentle push and watched as its head bounced disturbingly upon impact with the concrete floor.

The silence that followed was deafening, hollow now that it had been carved into with such thunderous violence. Pansy stood surveying the destruction, her chest heaving, strands of hair caught on her parted lips.

Half of the wooden storage crates were obliterated, their innards dispersed chaotically around the room. Bodies were strewn in various states: from the groaning goon who clutched his limp arm to the very dead body at her feet.

All that was left was Charlie and his capture with the twisted, scarred sneer.

Pansy’s eyes narrowed as they focused on the pair. Charlie was still with terror as he looked to her pleadingly; tear tracks streaked through the grime on his round cheeks. The man’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips anxiously as he moved his hand from Charlie’s chest to his throat.

Rage burned in Pansy’s chest.

“Drop the gun and the wand or I swear I’ll do it!” the man shouted, his panic evident in his voice.

Charlie’s little hands scrabbled at the thick fingers on his throat.

As Pansy dropped the gun she raised her wand and hissed with every drop of hatred that coursed through her veins, “ _Expulsio sanguia ventrem”._

Immediately the scarred man released his hold on Charlie’s neck. The boy fell to the ground and scrambled behind the nearest crate as the man-made a heaving sound. With a harsh flick, Pansy pulled the curse that had taken hold within the man’s body. With cruel delight, she watched as the man began to heave, a geyser of deep crimson and flesh poured from his silent scream of agony.

As someone in her line of work, Pansy held a huge amount of respect for the fragility of the human body and she marvelled at this fact once again as she watched the man’s carcass reject its innards in a matter of moments.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Pansy wasted no time as she rushed over to the crate.

“Hey,” she hushed as she crouched down. Charlie blinked up at her with teary eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his bottom lip trembling.

Pansy reached for him, covering the wince of pain at the movement. “No, come on,” she said as she tapped a knuckle gently under his chin. “We can talk about it later, but right now, let's get you home yeah?” she said with a forced smile.

Weakly, Charlie nodded and he pulled himself from himself up.

“This way,” Pansy said as she straightened tenderly, her muscles groaning from exertion. She ushered Charlie in front of her so as to put herself between him and the bodies in an attempt to shield him from further harm. She focused on the route ahead and getting to the bloody corridor. She wanted to get them as far away as she could, as quickly as possible. There was no doubt that somebody had heard the commotion and would be on their way and she knew she wasn’t in a good way to protect them both.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie hiccupped.

“Hey,” Pansy said sternly as her hand curled around his shoulder, “none of that right now, we just need to focus on getting out of here before more people come yeah?”

Charlie nodded and drew in a tremulous breath as he began to walk towards the door with little hurried steps.

Pansy huffed a sigh of relief as she began to limp after him.

_Definitely fucked that ankle,_ she thought as she focused on the route ahead. It wasn’t far to the entrance and provided that no-one had come in, she reasoned that they would have a clear shot.

Charlie was reaching for the door.

“Wait, me first,” Pansy commanded as his little hand curled around the door handle. “You don’t know what’s out there, and I want you behind me.”

Charlie turned to look at her.

His gaze caught on something behind her.

The last thing she saw was a flash of green reflected in the whites of Charlie’s eyes befo-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... do you want to talk about it? 
> 
> As usual, Kudos is love and comments let me know you're there. Any thoughts and theories?
> 
> Come and find me on tumblr at: https://thusatlas.tumblr.com/


	17. Kairos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I don't think there is anything I can say that will make the last chapter any easier on all of you. Know that it pained me to do. That being said, I dived into 17 thinking that this would make up for it. Only slight problem here - I have finally found the word limit that I'm unwilling to cross. 17 stood at 25k and I knew there was still a chunk left. So here is 17 part 1. 
> 
> Again, a huge thank you to Canttouchthis who I realise, has the patience of a saint for putting up with my shit. Please please check out her WIP Finding Kallipolis and her new work that she's writing in collab with Leilahmoon - Love is Madness: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canttouchthis/pseuds/Canttouchthis 
> 
> Triggers! - blood and gore / violence / hurt / grief - if I've missed anything, please let me know and I'll add it to the list!
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

**_There was a man who dwelt alone_ **

**_beneath the moon in shadow._ **

**_He sat as long as lasting stone,_ **

**_and yet he had no shadow._ **

**_The owls, they perched upon his head_ **

**_beneath the moon of summer;_ **

**_They wiped their beaks and thought him dead,_ **

**_who sat there dumb all summer._ **

****

**_There came a lady clad in grey_ **

**_beneath the moon a-shining._ **

**_One moment did she stand and stay_ **

**_her hair with flowers entwining._ **

**_He woke, as had he sprung of stone,_ **

**_beneath the moon in shadow,_ **

**_And clasped her fast, both flesh and bone;_ **

**_and they were clad in shadow._ **

****

**_And never more she walked in light,_ **

**_or over moonlit mountain,_ **

**_But dwelt within the hill, where night_ **

**_is lit but with a fountain –_ **

**_Save once a year when caverns yawn,_ **

**_and hills are clad in shadow,_ **

**_They dance together then till dawn_ **

**_and cast a single shadow._ **

****

_J.R.R Tolkien – The Shadow Man_

**Chapter 17 – Kairos**

* * *

* * *

_Have you been paying attention?_

**_17:42 pm 13_ ** **_th_ ** **_of September 1999 – Unit one-B, The Cut, South Bank, London_ **

****

As has been said, when a schema is broken, an individual is overcome with a sense of unease. Humans frame their worldviews with beliefs of how things _should be_. And so when that schema is broken, one feels out of place.

But that’s science.

Death, on the other hand, is a break to an individual’s worldview that is so profound that it fundamentally changes the living forever.

An individual will expect to see the same faces, love the same people – the same schemata.

And then they’re gone. Just like that…

It’s the simplicity of death that hurts the most.

Death is the hollow silence that is filled with memories.

Death is a whisper of a chain-stoked breath.

Death is an unfinished word.

Grief is the fracture. It is an emotion that is so layered and so complex that while it is commonplace to reduce it to five manageable steps, in practice, a beast as wild as grief has its own path. The reductive line of categorisation into a manageable recipe leaves one rather short-handed when the time comes.

The only other emotion that has such a profound effect on the soul is love.

Neither grief nor love can really be accounted for by scientific discoveries because all the literature eventually boils down to the same point - these experiences are ineffable, unquantifiable qualia. Thus, fall at the forefront of the Mind-Body Problem – the question as to whether or not the Mind is the Soul; the reason for it being a problem is because nobody can empirically prove the existence of the Mind - it is just assumed to exist. Within psychology, most emotions can be mapped through electrical impulses and tracked to certain areas of the brain. The course of the chemicals released upon breaking a bone can be followed to their destination. But grief and love are an enigma. The sources of their origins are unknown. They just exist within humans, tearing at the fibre of their being whilst remoulding them into something new. 

Hence it is believed that the source of love and grief may exist within the mind - or in alternate terminology, the soul.

Love is the emotion of a deep connection being formed, grief is the feeling of it breaking. Within them, you can find amusement, happiness, sadness, anger, pain - feelings that are fleeting, experimentally replicable and quantifiable. 

But love and grief fall out of the bounds of this cold scientific narrative because the only way to repeat them is through a subjective, personal connection from one individual to another. 

And so, if the logic is to be followed, every emotion is quantifiable except two: grief and love. Ergo, it is through the soul that humans connect to one another.

Therefore, it stands to reason why love is often synonymous with pain: humans love with the very essence of their being.

But grief is different.

A visit of death upon one’s soul doesn’t just break a schema and leave one feeling uneasy…

No…

Death shatters reality and leaves one desperately grasping at anything just to take back the illusion of control.

Draco shifted his grip on the body held in his arms. He tried to focus on Blaise's hurried movement as he and an ashen-faced Charlie rifled through the make-shift office. He watched the boy blink slowly as his small fingers moved the paper around the desk. Draco would have mistaken the crease between his brows to be concentration, had it not been for the manic, glassy look in his eyes that had been there since he had appeared in Hyde Park. Blaise had finally begun to explain the small issue of his burgeoning criminal empire when Charlie had burst through the door.

Blaise was out of his seat and comforting the boy before Draco registered what was happening. Charlie had been hunched over, gasping for hiccuped breath, a cross between exhaustion and hysteria, by the time Draco had warily approached.

And then he had heard it.

The devastating news delivered in the small voice of a frightened boy.

“She’s dead.”

Blaise had asked a barrage of questions as they had followed Charlie to the warehouse.

“Why were you there?”

“I wanted to help.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why was Pansy there?”

“She was following some people from some tapes who had taken somethi-”

“What happened?”

“I do-”

It was only when Draco had crouched by her still body and to trail the tip of his finger over her cold cheek to tenderly brush aside the hair that had fallen across her face, did he hear Blaise cease his enraged pacing to croak his final question.

“Why…”

Draco examined the other bodies. Eleven in total.

“He’s not here,” Charlie whispered in horror. Blaise had whipped his head around, his eyes darting, searching, assessing.

“What do you mean? Who?” he’d snapped savagely, causing the boy to flinch.

Draco had stood with a sigh and made to stand in Blaise’s path to the boy, seemingly unaware of the impression his positioning gave.

“Who?” Draco had repeated softly to Charlie; his voice had been rough from disuse after his silent pilgrimage through London.

Charlie had turned to him with his haunted glassy eyes.

“The wizard who did it,” he’d said, his voice empty.

They hadn’t wasted time.

“You get Pans,” Blaise had snapped as he had sprinted towards the corridor.

Draco had watched with alarm as Charlie had zipped after him. “Where are you going?!” he shouted as he raised his arms in exasperation.

“To find out who _they_ are!” Blaise had shouted before he had disappeared around the corner.

Draco watched as Blaise flitted to the next round of boxes. The sounds of the room were too harsh, too loud but at the same time far away and muffled, as if he was watching the scene through an echoing tunnel.

He felt numb with shock.

He stepped away from the door to look up and down the corridor, his ears pricked for any sound other than the destruction of the office. They wouldn’t have long. If the wizard had escaped, he’d have told others by now.

He looked down at Pansy, whose smooth skin stood stark against the sleek black hair that framed her still face.

_Any second now…_

Draco jostled his arms slightly and watched in quiet despair as her head lolled insensate.

_Any second now she’ll open her eyes…_

A memory of warm hazel brown eyes smiling at him over the lip of a goblet, in the crook behind a tapestry, running through the gardens, flashed through his mind like they were on a reel.

He jostled his arms once more, weaker this time as his hope wanned. She looked so small in his arms as she lay there, unmoving.

“Why,” he breathed as ice crinkled up the chasm in his chest; his eyes roved over her lifeless features, memorising them. “Why did you choose to go alone? Why didn’t you wait for me?” He swallowed past the painful lump that had formed in his throat. “I would have come with you.”

“She always worked alone.”

Draco looked up to where Blaise leant in the doorway, watching him.

“And you thought that was a good idea?” Draco said incredulously. The pervading numbness melted as Blaise’s words stoked the fire that simmered in his veins; his claws caught on Pansy’s clothes as they appeared.

Blaise shrugged as a look of consternation darkened his face. “Yes, she was good at what she did.”

Draco scoffed acidically. “Does this look like a good idea to you?” he said, his tone was black and full of warning.

Blaise’s lip twitched in a snarl. “This was never part of the plan-” Draco laughed bitterly as he curled Pansy’s body more protectively into his. “ _THIS,”_ Blaise gestured to the office behind him as he continued over Draco’s interruption, “this isn’t part of the plan.”

“So tell me,” Draco sneered, sobering from his outburst, “whatever goal you had in mind for this ridiculous plan, is it worth it?” He jerked his arms, stressing his point with a jolt of Pansy’s limp body.

Blaise flinched.

“Freedom from the mess our parents embroiled us in,” Blaise sneered as his features twisted with fury, “that _you_ dragged us into…” He took a step into the corridor, his gaze intent with hate. “Anything is worth freedom from that.”

Draco smirked as the ice spread and the fire burned.

With a murderously soft voice, he spoke; “Like mother, like son.”

“Fuck you!” Blaise spat.

**Crack**

No one moved.

Draco quickly glanced toward the garage where the sound echoed from, before meeting Blaise’s stricken gaze again. Charlie had frozen his movements from where he still rummaged by a desk, poised as still as a statue, his empty eyes wide with unadulterated terror.

No one breathed.

Draco could make out the voices of the three men drifting down the corridor. His fingers tightened their grip on Pansy’s body as he felt a swell of rage build in his chest, only for it to be quickly suffocated by Fear’s blanket.

Blaise reached behind him as he kept his eyes on Draco.

“We need to go!” Blaise breathed as Charlie slipped his hand into his outstretched palm. Draco bit the inside of his cheek as his temper fought against the heavy blanket that Fear had swaddled it in, as she cooed lovingly in his ear, her breath raising the hairs on his neck. He looked down at Pansy’s body and imagined the way she must have fought to leave behind the devastation she did.

She wouldn’t run.

He gritted his teeth as he tried to physically shake off the cloying grip of Fear. The ice spread from his chest to his mind, crackling and hardening the walls in his mind that kept the majority of his temper at bay. The second that there was an opening of freedom, the rage trapped in his chest surged forward, spilling into and filling every nerve, every fibre and bone of his being, leaving no room for doubt.

The magical wave that flowed through him wasn’t all of it, but enough to break free, whilst keeping control. 

Carefully, Draco lowered Pansy to the floor.

“What are you doing?!” Blaise hissed as he reached out as if to stop him.

Draco straightened and rolled his shoulders, feeling them creak with the strain of having been stuck tense in the same position whilst the burden of his wings grew.

“Take the boy and go,” Draco said with a quiet calmness as he turned towards the garage.

The tide that he had been holding back, surged over his occlumency walls like a storm surge, flooding his iced veins with liquid fire. He held on to his control in desperation.

Blaise’s hand snapped out and grabbed his arm, ceasing his movement. 

“What about _her_?!” Blaise snapped, “you’re just going to leave her there like that?!”

Draco looked down at the hand that crumpled his shirt sleeve to the still body on the floor, to the whites of Blaise’s stricken eyes.

“She’s dead, take the boy and have your freedom,” he said glibly before he pulled himself from Blaise’s grip, turning his back on him. “Go,” he ordered over his shoulder as he strode his way toward the voices.

He flexed his hands by his side as he walked solemnly down the corridor. With every step, the newcomer’s muffled conversation became clearer.

“We were just here and this kid showed up; he was hiding right behind those crates.”

“Where did he come from?” said another voice.

“No idea, he was tight-lipped for a young’en. And then the bitch witch came in and did this.”

Draco rounded the corner in the lull of their conversation. All three men had their back to him. Two of the men wore sharply tailored suits whilst the third, who was stood in the centre, was covered in remnants of dust and dirt.

“She came from inside,” the man in the middle said. “She’s th-”

He stopped, his eyes widening in shock as he spotted Draco standing in the exact spot his dirty finger had limply pointed too. The two suited men turned in perfect unison, their frowns the perfect mirror of one another. Their pale features were as if they were cut from the same stone: hard and sharp.

“Oh good, more!” the dirty man said after a moment of collecting himself. “And who are you?”

Draco lifted a brow. “Health and safety inspector,” he drawled as he stepped over a body and into the room.

The dirty man snorted. “Sure, you’ve come looking for the bitch haven’t you.”

The two Suits stepped away from the centre, fanning out at equidistant from one another to surround Draco as he came to stop in the centre of the destruction.

“If you say so,” he shrugged as he tore down the last of his walls, allowing the tide to flow free, only for it to gather and build pressure. He emptied his lungs in a long and steady breath as released his final breaker, allowing his magic and fury to pour from him and into the room.

Harsh gales began to whip around them as the air grew thick and crackled with atmosphere. Draco stretched his neck from side to side, relishing in the freedom.

“And just who are you?” he said darkly as he focused on the dirty man.

The two suits looked around, their steps uneasy.

“It was him!”

Everything stopped as Draco cocked his head at the sound of Charlie’s voice from behind him, his eyes never wavering from his mark.

The dirty man’s eyes widened and his lips parted with shock as he looked past Draco to follow the sound of the shout. 

Draco watched his throat bob in contraction as the dirty man met his eyes once more.

 _“Charlie! For fuck’s sake!”_ he heard Blaise shout as Draco saw the wand appear in the wizard’s hand.

Draco flexed his hand as he brought it up in an arch; a vicious snarl tore from his throat as he funnelled the burn of his temper from tips of his fingers, ensnaring the tendrils of wind that lashed at his clothes and redirecting them all to the wizard. He felt the pressure of his shoulders ease and the shadow of his wings fell over him as he watched the wizard blast backwards and into the side one of the many wooden crates that lined the room.

The howling winds continued to push, crushing the wizard against the wood that groaned under the stress. The sound of the storm building in the garage was deafening. Draco silently snarled with delight as the wizard screamed, his face contorting in agony as the unrelenting pressure of the wind bore down on him.

He saw movement to his right and only had a second to think before a weight crashed into his side, throwing him to the floor.

Draco grunted as white-hot pain lanced up the side he landed on.

Rolling.

One of the Suits wrestled him before he pulled back his closed fist, secure around a glinting knife as he towered over Draco.

Trapped.

Without thought, he snapped his arm up and buried his claws into the Suit’s throat just as the knife came down and found home in his shoulder.

Hot liquid spilt down his hand as he growled. He could barely make out the gurgle that came from the Suit’s surprised mouth over the roar of the frenzied wind around them. With a heave, he ripped his claws free, tearing at the delicate flesh. Blood erupted from the gash, flowing freely onto his face before he pushed the twitching body off of him.

Draco rolled onto his less pained shoulder, hissing as the weight of his damaged wing pulled on the sinew and muscle around the knife. He swiped a hand over his face, slicking his hair back with blood and sweat as he looked to the wizard.

The side of the crate had splintered and caved under the pressure, collapsing in on itself. The second Suit was in the midst of battling the still raging wind and pulling the wizard from the wreckage.

With a grunt, Draco heaved himself to his feet, wincing at the burn from his left side. He took a second to balance himself before he started to make his way over to the struggling pair.

The Suit looked up in surprise as Draco drew closer. He took a moment to take in Draco’s blooded appearance before his gaze flicked to the body. He dropped the wizard’s hand and puffed out his chest in anger as he turned to face Draco. With a flick of his wrist, Draco caught the loose tendrils of wind and whipped them around the Suit, flinging him to the other side of the room.

He didn’t spare a moment to check where the Suit landed. He casually swept aside the funnel of gales as he stepped into the wreckage of the crate. The wizard gasped for breath as he lay amongst the splintered wood and destruction.

“How are we doing?” Draco asked casually as he stood over the wizard, looking down upon him. The wizard blinked up at him with wide frightened eyes as he feebly made to try and back away. Draco tutted with emotionless amusement and knelt beside the squirming man.

“That ‘bitch’ was family,” he said with a quiet, sinister voice as he curled a bloodied hand into the dirty collar of the wizard’s shirt.

The wizard gasped, his dirty hands scrabbled uselessly at Draco’s arms; his legs kicked out restlessly, seeking anything for purchase. The wind roared around them with vengeance and fury, screaming with murderous desire.

“Please,” he begged, his eyes searching Draco’s. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please -”

Draco flashed a smirk as the acrid tang of fear filled the air.

He pulled back his fist as he yanked the babbling wizard’s head closer to him.

In one smooth snap, his fist burst the wizard’s nose.

On the third, Draco felt a cheekbone cave.

On the fourth, the wizard fell silent and red spittle flowed freely down his chin.

The eighth, another crunch.

The eleventh, one blooded eye peered wearily up at him, the other swollen shut.

The fifteenth, the wizard’s head bounced with an obscene thud against the concrete floor.

**BANG**

Draco’s flinch halted his action, his fist, frozen in the air as he frantically searched behind him for the gun.

The other Suit lay on the floor, leant against a pile of crates, his arm unsteadily aiming towards him, his chest ragged with heavy breath as the wind continued to howl around them.

Directly behind Draco, in the line of fire, was Blaise.

Draco dropped the wizard and launched himself to his feet, the pain of his side forgotten. It was only when he stepped out of the crate to reach for Blaise that Draco watched with all-encompassing terror, as Charlie sprinted across towards the Suit, a plank of wood raised in his hands, determination on his face.

Draco started, just as the nuzzle of the gun swivelled towards the boy.

“NO!” He roared, releasing everything from within him as he caught the wind around him and threw it with every last inch of his strength at the Suit.

The gun fired -

Just as Charlie was knocked to the ground by the maelstrom of wrathful wind that bore down on the Suit.

The Suit’s mouth opened in a torturous scream that was lost in the bitter howl of the gales that crushed unerringly down on to his chest.

Draco rushed to Charlie’s prone form, and with a trembling hand, searching for any sign of a wound.

“’m fine!” Charlie said in a raised voice as Draco rolled him over. The boy raised a hand and clutched his head. “’m fine…” he repeated, as he peered up at Draco with unfocused eyes.

“Fuck,” Draco spat savagely as his fingers skirted over Charlie’s forehead; the site of impact was already beginning to darken.

_Need to finish this quick._

Draco looked to the Suit who was frozen in slow suffocation as the wind robbed him of his breath.

With a dismissive wave, the wind ceased, the sudden silence deafening only to be filled the ragged gasp for breath from the Suit. Draco stood from Charlie’s side and crossed the space to stand over him. The Suit barely had time to register the fact, before Draco leant down and with the efficiency that had been burned into his soul from his aunt, reached out and cupped one bloodied hand around the back of the Suit’s skull, the other cradling the jaw. Draco twisted his hands with a jerk, feeling the telling pressure of resistance give with a **crack.**

He dropped the lifeless limp head and straightened, his gaze quickly seeking Charlie, who was stumbling across the room to a kneeling Blaise.

_You bastard…_ Draco sucked a hissing breath as he hastily crossed the room.

“Tell me you didn’t,” Draco snapped roughly as he fell to his knees alongside Blaise; Charlie came up on Blaise’s other side and blinked at him owlishly, the bruise on his forehead now an angry shade of plum.

Blaise chuckled bitterly and peered up to Draco as he loosened his bloodied grip on the side of his waist.

“I don’t think it’s anything serious, hurts like a mother though. You owe me,” he said with a wink.

Draco fell forward heavily, leaning his hand on the floor as he bowed his head. The sense of relief that washed over him was so powerful it knocked the breath from his lungs as he laughed with only a hint of hysteria.

“Fuck you,” he gasped, a grin spread across his lips as he looked back up to Blaise whose responding laughter quickly morphed into a wince of pain.

“Yeah, okay,” Draco said, suddenly sobering. “Hospital for everyone. Can you apparate?” he said, eyeing Blaise's bloody hand that clutched his side.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he said as reached out for support to stand.

Draco, with Charlie’s help, pulled Blaise to his feet.

“Pansy,” Charlie said.

Draco and Blaise looked to one another, a silent communication passing between them.

“You’re the one who’s going to be doing the heavy lifting mate,” Draco said with a shrug.

Blaise’s jaw popped as he nodded.

“We’re not leaving her,” he said resolutely.

Without argument Draco turned on his heel and staunchly strode from the room, pushing the pain of his side from his mind. As he picked Pansy’s body up once more, a **crack** of apparition echoed down the corridor from the garage. He froze, listening for the tell-tale sign of confrontation that would have been certain if someone new had arrived.

When nothing came, Draco lifted Pansy with a wince and gritted teeth. His shoulder and wing burned with searing agony.

He returned moments later to the garage only to see a breathless Blaise appear with a **crack.**

“I took Charlie ahead,” he said as Draco came closer. “Figured two trips would be easier than carrying the three of you.”

Draco nodded in understanding. “You want to take Pansy first?” he asked.

Blaise shook his head. “Na, it’ll be fine.”

“Did you manage to find anything on whoever this lot are with all your searching?” Draco asked as he shifted his grip on Pansy.

Blaise tapped his pocket and grinned wryly. “Shipping manifests and addresses,” he said proudly as he reached for Draco. “Ready?”

Draco curled his fingers to tighten his grip.

Blaise hesitated. “I was going to go straight to the lobby but I could…”

Draco looked up and noted how Blaise’s gaze paused on the space behind his shoulders.

“At this point,” Draco replied cooly, “I really don’t give a fuck.”

Blaise met his eyes with a nod of certainty before he raised his wand.

“Hold tight,” he said, just as Draco felt the nauseating pull at his navel and they disappeared with a sombre **crack** that echoed throughout the tomb.

**_18:14 pm, 13th of September 1999 - St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London, UK._ **

Draco stumbled as they landed. His grip slipped on Pansy’s body as he hissed in pain. He felt Blaise’s arms come around him, holding him upright.

“Alright?” Blaise asked quietly.

Draco swallowed as he nodded, his breath ragged as his side burned.

“Oh my!” A new voice exclaimed. Draco peered up to see a dowdy witch in lime green overalls race towards them. “What’s happened here?” she demanded, her shrewd eyes snapping between Blaise, Draco and Pansy’s limp body.

“Where’s the boy?” Blaise replied as he looked around.

“I’ve taken him through,” she said, her tone clipped, not allowing room for nonsense. “His bump to the head needed scanning. I’ll take you through now.” She hesitated, her eyes hovering over Pansy’s limp body before she looked back up to Blaise and Draco. “Is she…?”

Draco took a tremulous breath of exertion as he straightened. “She’s dead,” he replied, his voice hollow as he met the witch’s eyes. He saw her gaze slip to his shoulders and follow the lines behind him. Blaise shifted to stand slightly in front of Draco, obscuring him from her assessing view.

“We’re hurt bad,” Blaise said as if to remind her of the situation.

The Healer pursed her lips before nodding. “You and everyone else, boy,” she snipped with a vague gesture to the rest of the lobby. She turned and released a sharp piercing whistle up the corridor behind her.

Draco let his eyes wander as they stood awkwardly, waiting for the Healer’s next move. He peered around Blaise’s shoulder, hobbling slightly to keep his balance as his injured wing twitched. He met the wide eyes of a small girl, no older than five, who had mud cakes down the side of her face. Tear tracks scored her cheeks as her eyes looked from him to his wings. Next to her, Draco saw a woman with a bloodied bandage against her head.

A man who nursed his arm whilst staring blankly into space.

A young boy who cradled a broken doll as he tried to comfort his elder sister who cried into her clasped hands.

Draco raised his gaze to look around the lobby and took in the chaos as if through a muted lens. Everywhere he looked, injured people waited to be seen; Healers zipped from one person to the next, their expression’s tense as they noted injury after injury, triaging the most severe cases to be taken through immediately. The air was filled with the smell of ozone and the sound of muted cries of pain.

And still more people were arriving.

Flame after flame, the fireplaces that lined the walls of the lobby flared to life, spewing out more casualties, only to repeat the action a moment later.

Draco realised they had landed in the apparition bay when the sound of three close **cracks** sounded, making him flinch with their sudden intrusive noise. He pulled Pansy’s limp body to him as he eyed the new group of people. Two had side-alonged: one supported a woman with an ugly gash down her face and an arrow in her side; the other stumbled as they supported a man whose skin had gone a deadly shade of grey as he clutched a bloody stump of an arm close to his chest.

“We should move,” Draco mumbled to Blaise. Around him, people were casting curious glances at his wings, only for their eyes to flash in recognition after they searched his face for a moment. He knew that he must look a sight. He could feel the blood caking and stiffening on his skin, growing itchier by the second.

“What happened?”

Draco looked up to see a group of Healers approach, their cautious eyes bouncing between Draco, Pansy and his hand that held her.

“Killing curse we think,” Blaise replied, shifting to cover Draco once more as the closest Healer raised his wand. “The boy we’re with was a witness.”

“Easy fella,” the Healer said in a thick Scottish accent, eyeing Blaise and Draco with caution. “We’re just going to levitate the body.”

Draco’s claws curled into Pansy’s jacket as he felt a fission of abject horror at the thought of them taking her away.

“Easy big guy,” the Scottish man said. “Nasty wound you got there.” He nodded to the knife that was still embedded in Draco’s shoulder. “If you let us take the gir-”

“Pansy,” Blaise snapped; the Scottish man blanched at the interruption. “Her name is Pansy Parkinson.”

**Crack**

**Crack**

Draco pulled Pansy closer as a new group arrived. He met the eyes of an elderly couple whose flowing robes were drenched as if they had fallen in a lake; they merely stepped around him and into the waiting area, too in shock to care for his presence. 

“Ms Parkinson,” the Scottish Healer repeated slowly. “We’re just going to take her so that you two can be seen to. You can come by and say your goodbyes once you’re healed yeah?”

Blaise huffed a sigh before he looked up over his shoulder to Draco who sucked his fang in an attempt to abate the gnawing desperation that was building in his chest. He knew reasonably, that the Healers were right.

Didn’t mean he had to like it.

He’d left her alone, she had died…

He didn’t want to let her go now.

_Too little too late…_

**Crack**

**Crack**

Draco nodded to the party of Healers as he released an unsteady breath. The ice crystalised around his heart, tinkling as it hardened the surfaces, freezing the pain in stasis. He shifted his thumb against the soft leather of Pansy’s jacket, savouring the feel before he finally relinquished his hold.

**Crack**

**Crack**

**Crack**

**Crack**

The Scottish Healer and another raised their wands in unison and gently levitated Pansy’s body up and over the heads of those gathered in the lobby. Draco watched as she floated silently from the room; he barely restrained a snarl as the Healers jostled her in an attempt to avoid a snivelling child but eventually, she disappeared from sight.

“Ready?” Blaise murmured to Draco, who nodded; his hand flexed by his side, stretching out its alien emptiness. He gave one last look to the corridor that Pansy had disappeared down.

**Crack**

**Crack**

Blaise nodded to the remaining medical staff who proceeded to flank them and usher them from the room, following in the wake of the dowdy witch who had greeted them.

“The boy is fine, mild concussion, he’s been given a potion whilst we wait for the Neuro-charms Master,” she reported in her no-nonsense manner. “The Aurors are in with him now.”

“Beg your pardon?” Blaise said, his eyebrows rising in alarm and he shot a wide-eyed look to Draco, who only shook his head slightly.

“Calm it,” Draco breathed as his eyes darted from person to person, categorising every face that he passed.

“Have you _seen_ yourself?” Blaise hissed back from the side of his mouth. “I read what the Minister said at your hearing.”

“I am well aware,” Draco replied coolly before wincing at a particularly wild twitch of his injured wing.

“I’ll run ahead and get someone from the first floor to come and take a look at your wing Mr Malfoy,” said the MediWizard who walked in his shadow. Draco tried to hide the surprise with a nod of his head and a smile that he knew was strained.

“Thank you, I would appreciate it,” he offered quietly as the Healer departed with a friendly smile.

“Here we are,” said the dowdy Healer.

“Draco I don’t like this,” Blaise murmured urgently.

“Calm,” Draco quietly replied as he turned to follow the Mediwitch into a brightly lit room. He could see that only one of the beds was occupied and it was surrounded by two Scarlet robed men who turned upon their entry.

“Well, well…now isn’t this a surprise,” drawled Auror Graham Montague, his eyes flashing maliciously as he met Draco’s gaze.

_Fuck._

**_18:28 pm, 13th of September, 1999 - St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London, UK._ **

Hermione stepped through the flames, her arm slung around the waist of a hacking young wizard who had stepped too close to the Loch and been dragged under by the MerPeople. 

As it turned out, they really hadn’t been joking about the revolution that they had been threatening and as such, several had broken away from the main Loch, to scout ahead a hunting party. Reports were starting to come in from Inverness via the Scottish Ministry Office, of Muggles being dragged into the River Ness by ‘finned sea-monsters’.

“Just sit here,” she said as she lowered the wizard into the nearest empty chair. “Someone will be with you in a moment.” She flicked her wand and conjured a red light to hang above his head.

When the evacuation of Loch Ness began, a system had quickly been set into place. Every home that was cleared, was quickly hooked up to the floo network and used as a point of entry and exit. It was quick and dirty, and there were problems with wrong destination points; several times Hermione had found herself stepping into an unsuspecting home in the Isle of Man, or Cardiff, or even on one particularly memorable occasion - a masseuse shop in Croydon.

Meanwhile, the creatures had kept coming.

Wave after wave of yeti and centaur, that was soon joined by all manner of weird and wonderful beings. The goal of beating them had been quickly replaced with the back-up plan of hanging on long enough for evacuation and reinforcements.

Ever since, Hermione had been riding the floo networks (mostly) to St Mungo’s and back, delivering the wounded magical and Muggle folk. (Read: the muggles were sectionally obliviated upon release, with an understanding that they were unable to return to Scotland and suddenly found themselves with a very strong urge to vacation in the south of France.)

Hermione pushed her hair from her eyes as she looked around the room. It had been many hours since she had even bothered to try to rectify the mess on her head. 

Rows and rows of injured were lining the seats, leaning against the walls. Susan, Healer Driscoll who Hermione had conferred with hours prior about the sudden influx of patients St Mungo’s was about to receive, bustled over to the hacking wizard. Her expression was tense as she efficiently assessed his injuries for triage.

“What was it?” she asked as she turned his arms, noting the torn skin.

“MerPeople,” Hermione replied as her eyes caught on a levitating body.

“How long was he under?” Susan asked.

“Uh,” Hermione narrowed her eyes at the unconscious floating woman. “About five minutes,” she answered unconsciously; the Healers carrying the woman jostled around a child, causing the woman’s head to loll limply. 

“Well…” 

_Pansy Parkinson,_ she thought as she focused on the girl. _Is she…_ There was something about the ragdoll nature of her unconscious form that struck at the uncanny valley. _Surely not…_

“Unspeakable Granger?” 

Hermione started, focusing back to Susan who peered at her with a deep frown. “Was it just MerPeople?” she repeated. Hermione opened her mouth to answer, her eyes briefly flicking back to Parkinson’s now disappearing unconscious form. 

“I’m not sure,” she replied, turning back to Susan. “I only got to him when he was being pulled from the water.” 

Susan nodded and tore the parchment from the pad she had been writing on. She tapped it with her wand and folded it into a neat memo aeroplane, similar to the Ministry’s. With a flick of her wand, the memo aligned with the red beacon Hermione had conjured, and together, the two zipped off down an adjacent corridor. 

“First floor for you then Sir, come along,” Susan bustled, as she gently pulled the wizard from the chair. She sent Hermione a tight nod in parting before leading the wizard away to follow the memo and the beacon. 

Hermione pursed her lips, her mind stuck on Parkinson. With a frown, she cast her eyes around the lobby. 

Something was out of plac-

The crowd parted. 

“Malfoy,” she breathed as she saw the memorable black wings except…

One was hanging limper than the other.

Then Malfoy moved his head to look in back towards the corridor that Parkinson had disappeared down revealing a shock of copper that was smeared from his face, into his hair. 

With a quiet gasp, Hermione launched herself forward, darting around a Mediwitch who was leaning over a small child. She turned to run down the aisle between the chairs when an elderly couple appeared in her way. After performing the customary dance of dithering over directions, Hermione forcefully moved the elderly woman to the right just as Malfoy was led away, flanked on all sides by lime green robes. 

“Shit,” she hissed as she jostled around the next person, who cursed her colourfully as she passed. 

She dipped down the corridor, speeding her walk as fast as she could, slaloming between Healers who jogged in different directions. 

She almost collided with an elderly man who wore an offensively orange robe, who gruffed and chuntered about the ‘youths of today’. 

By the time Hermione rounded the corner of the corridor, following the direction that Malfoy was travelling, he had disappeared. 

_Shit. My job to keep a bloody eye on him and what does he do?!_

Her eyes tracked every face in the corridor - none were the particular brand of bloodstain and scowling that she was looking for. 

_What the fuck has he gotten into,_ she thought as she began to race up the corridor, only briefly glancing behind her to ensure he hadn’t disappeared down the other way. _I leave him for five minutes, FIVE MINUTES!_

She skidded to a stop as she passed an open door, a flash of a hulking black shadow catching her eye. 

“As the boy said, Draco had nothing to do with Pansy’s death.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened with shock as Blaise Zabini’s voice drifted into the hall. 

“Well that’s really not for you to decide Ol’ boy,” an oily voice replied, “and the evidence before me is enough for me to bring him in.” 

Hermione jolted into action. 

“Uh, excuse me!” she announced before thinking of the following sentence as she stepped up to the doorway. 

_What am I even walking into here?_

Scarlett robes. 

“Granger?” 

Hermione craned her neck to look up into the face of a bewildered-looking Malfoy. 

“There you are!” Hermione snipped, “lost you in the lobby. Some old people got in the way,” she chatted genially as she stepped more firmly into the room. She could see five Healers stood off to the side watching the scene before them with cautious eyes.

Two Aurors - Graham Montague, and an older man she didn’t recognise. 

_Montague, Alderton, Denbright, Renshaw, Peaks and Tuttle,_ she recalled Tali’s voice listing Robard’s inner circle. 

“Hermione Granger,” Montague said, his brows rising high on his forehead as his eyes flicked back and forth between Malfoy and her. 

“Yes, hello, what are you doing here?” she blithely replied as she stepped up to the foot of the bed that the two Auror’s surrounded. A small boy lay atop the sheets, the whites of his eyes evident as he looked to her pleadingly. 

Montague blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Well, uh,” he gruffed and cleared his throat as he stood straighter. “We’re here investigating the circumstances that this young man describes.” 

Hermione’s eyes glanced to the boy in question before refocusing on the Aurors. “And why is that any of your business?”

The older man blustered as he stepped around Montague. “Now see hea-”

“This is my case, my jurisdiction,” Hermione interrupted coldly. “The DMLE has no reason to be here.” 

Montague scoffed. “So whose jurisdiction is it then Granger?” he sneered.

“Unspeakable Granger.” 

Everyone paused before turning to Malfoy, who was watching the exchange with mercury eyes ablaze. “That’s Unspeakable Granger to you, Montague,” he repeated softly, his tone dark with an unspoken threat. 

Hermione blinked.

It was the only sign of surprise she could let slip under the guise of their predicament.

Montague snapped back to Hermione, his mouth rounded in surprise. 

“Well…” he said lamely, his gaze flicking back to Malfoy. “Unspeakable?”

“So what if this is DoM jurisdiction? Mr Malfoy here was told clearly that he was to not break the terms of his release, ” the older man gruffed, his smile wide over his stained teeth. 

Hermione quirked her brow as she stared him down. “Do you really want to try and take him in?” 

Montague snorted. “What are you goin-”

“Any move you make from here on in will be taken as an action against the Department of Mysteries, of which,” Hermione said coldly as she stepped around the bed and into their space, “I am a representative of. Mr Malfoy is under the supervision of the DoM and therefore falls under the same protections. So gentleman,” she smiled sweetly, her eyes dancing between them. “What’s it to be? Do you want to start the second departmental war?”

Montague’s jaw popped as he ground his teeth.

The older man bristled his cumbersome moustache. 

“If I may suggest gentlemen,” Malfoy said quietly as he stepped further into the room. “Fuck off.” 

Montague paled as Malfoy stepped closer. The Auror looked to Hermione as if hoping she would step between him and the looming, bloodied Veela.

She smiled innocently in response. 

“Your move,” she said with a shrug as she leant nonchalantly against the bed. 

Nobody spoke as Montague and the older Auror conversed with their eyebrows.

Hermione’s eyes slid over to Malfoy, who for all intents and purposes, was so calmly poised, he could have been waiting in line at a bakery.

Except for the blood that covered his clawed hands, half of his face and marred the pure white of his hair with a disturbing darkness. He crossed his arms and watched the Auror’s deliberate, seemingly content to wait them out; her eyes trailed over the way his shirt stretched around his shoulders and arms, before ending with turned-up cuffs at his corded forearms. Hermione swallowed, her mouth surprisingly dry as she followed the veins on his forearms. 

Her gaze caught once more on the badly-angled wing as it twitched; her frown deepened at the odd sight of something protruding from the front of his already injured shoulder. She narrowed her eyes in an attempt to discern what it could be but without getting closer; the black of the _thing_ on the black of his shirt made deciphering details difficult. 

It was then that she looked up at his face only to see the mercury eyes watching her closely in turn. She immediately tensed as her breath caught in her throat, and the urge to look away became tangible - she felt guilty for having been caught. 

And yet…

To look away from the fathomless swirl would be to… concede ground... _right?_

“I think it would be best if we left,” Montague announced to the waiting room, oblivious of the tension he shattered. Hermione puffed a breath between parted lips, releasing the air she had unknowingly trapped in her lungs. 

“Oh no, so soon?” Malfoy drawled emotionlessly, “please you must stay for tea.” 

A small voice in the back of Hermione’s mind cursed his nonchalance. 

Montague cast him a withering look that quickly smoothed at the command of Malfoy’s raised brow. To Hermione’s relief, the Aurors conceded the fight and slipped through the group towards the door. They were almost out of the room when Montague turned with a smirk.

“Do try to train your pet Granger,” he sneered; his dark eyes flicked to Malfoy whose top lips curled at the gibe. “You know what they say, third time’s the charm, an’ all.” 

Malfoy furiously rounded on him just as the older Auror nudged Montague’s shoulder, pushing him away from the room. Blaise quickly stepped into Malfoy’s path with a stern shake of his head as he placed a hand against his chest. 

“Leave it.” Though Blaise’s tone was a murmur, there was no escaping the command. Hermione was under no illusion that Blaise would actually be able to restrain Malfoy so she watched with curiosity as Malfoy held _himself_ back. 

“Right,” Hermione announced breezily, once Malfoy shrugged off Blaise’s hand with a grunt. Hermione turned to the ensemble of Healers expectantly: “What’s next?”

Robes of lime green spurred into action and Malfoy and Blaise were ushered to their respective beds. Hermione noted that while Blaise lavished under the attention, Malfoy was surprisingly quiet and closed off as the Healers manhandled his wings as he sat at the foot of the bed; one would almost describe him as stoic...

Almost. 

“Is he going to be okay?” she mused aloud as she saw his jaw pop and his eyes shutter as the Healers started to cut away the tattered remains of his shirt.

“Yes ma’am,” a friendly voice replied, “it’s only a mild concussion, he’ll be right as rain in a jiffy.”

Hermione blinked and frowned, before doing a double-take to the Mediwitch to her left that had answered; she was currently pouring a measure of a thick green potion next to the young boy’s bed.

“Good,” she replied as the boy looked up at her with empty eyes. Hermione offered a weak smile but the boy continued to stare as if looking straight through her. She didn’t know this child, she had assumed upon her entering the situation, that the child was something to do with the two: Hermione’s gaze flickered over to Blaise who was having wound at his side attended to; Malfoy’s head was bow as Healers ran scans over his shoulder. 

Her eyes widened as she saw the things that she hadn’t been able to previously: the handle of a knife buried just below his clavicle. 

She looked back to Blaise. 

To the blood that covered Malfoy. 

To the boy’s empty, shellshocked eyes. 

The image of Parkinson’s floating unconscious body flashed in her mind’s eye and it clicked.

“Right, well,” she said awkwardly as she straightened herself, unsure of what to say to the boy - if she should even say anything at all. “I’ll uh -”

The Mediwitch offered her a kind smile before returning back to her work.

Hermione stepped away from the boy’s bed and bit the inside of her cheek as she moithered on the thought. 

_What on earth happened?!_

“Less than a day,” she stated as she approached Malfoy’s bed. She saw his wings give a particularly sharp jerk at her sudden intrusion, causing him to hiss a curse.

“What?” he snapped at her as he gave the Mediwizard who came close to his shoulder a particularly venomous glare. He was hunched forward, allowing the Healers to get a better look at his back.

“I leave for less than a day and look at you!” Hermione huffed as she gestured to his shoulder. 

Malfoy breathed a long sigh through his nose as he pursed his lips. 

“Hypocrisy doesn’t look good on you Granger,” he said darkly as his eyes trailed lazily down her body. 

Hermione felt warmth bloom up her neck as she shifted her weight uneasily from one foot to another; she was suddenly conscious of the state that she must look. She hadn’t slept since before arriving at Hyde Park; she had spent too much of the past twenty-hours slipping in the mud, jumping in lakes, fighting all manner of things, getting lost in fireplaces and frightening unsuspecting homeowners. If she was being honest with herself, she wouldn’t know where to begin listing all of the unknown substances that her uniform was covered in.

“I feel like, as I am the one who currently doesn’t have a knife sticking out of their shoulder, I still have the moral high ground,” Hermione replied, as she raised her chin to look down her nose at him. 

Malfoy’s lips slipped into a smirk as he eyed out of the corner of his eye. 

“I am more than happy to rectify that wrong,” he replied glibly. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes in a glare. “So,” she continued on, pointedly dismissing him, “who did you kill?” 

Malfoy stilled, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second. Had she not been watching, Hermione knew she would have missed it. 

“So that’s it, is it?” Malfoy sneered up to her from his still hunched position; his head was bowed low between his shoulders, widening the appearance of his already broad shoulders. “I get a knife in my shoulder and yet you assume _I’m_ the murderer.” 

Hermione laughed sardonically. “Oh get over yourself,” she said with venomous amusement. “I’m _assuming_ because you seem to be wearing someone’s innards as war paint.”

Malfoy blinked and raised a brow. “So what if I am wearing war paint? You are.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and fought the overwhelming urge to stamp her feet. 

“ _That_ is really _not_ the point.”

“Actually I think it is.”

“What is?” 

“The point.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she peered at him beseechingly. “What point?”

“Exactly,” Malfoy replied as a Mediwizard placed a hand on his chest to lean him back. 

Hermione felt the warmth spread from her neck to her cheeks. Under the clinical white witchlight of the room, the black bruise that bloomed down from his shoulder and around his ribs, stood stark against his chest. But what made her breath catch in her throat and her fingers twitch uselessly at her sides was the way the light hit the smooth marble skin that covered the deep rivets of his muscled abdomen. Hermione was torn between shock and - no. 

(read: denial). 

She had realised that he was healthier than when she saw in his cell in Azkaban, emaciated and filthy five days prior. She had noticed the way that his tailored clothes had sculpted his body, but she would never have expected him to be quite at the peak of… fitness that he was. 

Malfoy shifted, hissing in a breath between his teeth as the Healers assessed the knife in his shoulder. 

A faint hint of silvery-white caught her eye and Hermione mapped with a curious mix of fascination and dawning horror, the web of faint scars that littered his sculpted torso. 

“Why are you here Granger?”

Hermione started, her eyes snapping to meet Malfoy’s intense gaze just as the healer gripped the handle of the knife. With a nod to his counterpart and a quick yank, the Healer pulled the blade from Malfoy’s shoulder. Hermione gasped and benignly reached out as Malfoy closed his eyes. The only outward sign of discomfort he showed was in the way that every muscle and tendon had clenched and seized, defining every ridge of his body. 

“We’re going to need you to go up to the first floor,” the Mediwizard said as he dropped the bloody knife onto a nearby silver tray. Malfoy nodded, his gaze focused on the floor as his chest rose and fell slowly. The second Healer placed a cloth against the freely bleeding wound. 

“We’ll support your wings on the way the-”

“Excuse me,” Hermione interrupted, her mouth moving before her thoughts could catch-up. “I’m sorry, I must be misunderstanding,” she continued with a slight laugh of disbelief. “You didn’t just say that Mr Malfoy is to now walk himself across the hospital and up a flight of stairs in his injured state, did you, Healer...?” 

Malfoy seemed as surprised as the Healers as he looked up to her.

“Stanton,” the Healer answered as he turned to face her fully. “But yes, is there an issue?” 

Hermione frowned in confusion at him. “You tell me,” she replied, “what’s on the first floor that warrants the trip?” 

Healer Stanton nodded in understanding. “It’s the specialist ward for creature injuries. The Healers up there will be better equipped to assess the damage of this wi-”

“Is there a reason why the Healers can’t come here?” Hermione raised a brow in challenge as she stared down the Healer.

“Uh...” Healer Stanton looked to his colleague with unease, who merely replied with a subtle shrug. 

“Drop it Granger,” Malfoy said quietly as he made to get to his feet.

“Oh no you don’t,” Hermione said, rushing forward so as to stop him. She unthinkingly pressed her hand to his bare chest, pushing him back into his seat. It wasn’t until she met the gaze of the blazing mercury eyes that bore into hers, that she noticed the warmth of the skin between her fingertips. Her breath hitched as the firm muscles tensed, the sensation of the touch sending a jolt of electricity through her. She snatched her hand back as her cheeks pricked with heat; her senses flooded with _him_ : crackling spice - rich and sharp. Involuntarily, her eyes flicked back to Malfoy’s and the heat that had begun to spread through her body, suddenly burned uncontrollably as her pulse ratcheted against her ribs. 

“Miss?”

Hermione’s attention snapped to Healer Stanton who peered at her in confusion. 

“Yes?” she replied as she rubbed her tingling fingertips together, trying to rid them of the lingering feel of Malfoy’s skin. 

“Why can’t Mr Malfoy leave?” Healer Stanton asked as he peered in bewilderment between her and the man in question. 

The awareness of how close she stood to Malfoy flooded her senses. His presence was overwhelmingly large next to her. 

“Because,” she said, in a voice far breathier than intended. She cleared her throat and stood straighter. 

_Move away, just move away._

She couldn’t move; she was trapped in his orbit. 

“Because,” she tried again, “though I feel like it should be obvious, Mr Malfoy’s wings are large and so asking him to move with the open wound on his shoulder seems like needlessly excessive pain.”

Healer Stanton frowned. “But the first floor is where the exp-”

“Then they will come here,” she said with finality. “You wouldn’t make a witch or wizard with a broken leg walk through the corridors now, would you.” 

She raised a pointed brow as the Healer’s mouth snapped shut. 

“Good, glad that’s settled,” she said with a sharp smile. Healer Stanton shared a wordless look with his colleagues before he went over to the work desk that housed a pile of parchment; in seconds, he scrawled out the memos, magically folded it into to the familiar memo shape, cast a red beacon to surround it and sent it on its way. 

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” Malfoy said softly beside her. Hermione tried not to jump at the closeness of his deep voice in her ear. 

“Shut up Malfoy,” she chided as she stepped away; she took a deep breath, relishing in the way she breathed easier the further she got from him. The scent of rich spice and sharp electricity still clung to her every inhale, as if to torture her with every breath.

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy drawled, “after all, somebody has to praise your righteousness; otherwise the world will end.” He looked at her expectantly. “And of course, that’s twice in the span of ten minutes that you have inserted yourself into my business.”

Hermione rounded on him, indignance flaring in her heated veins. “It’s my bloody job or have you forgotten that already.”

Malfoy’s lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “Of course not Spook, I know my place.”

“Good,” she replied, feeling suddenly adrift as she found herself without the need to volley back an attack. “Well,” she looked around the room. The healers who attended to Blaise were measuring out vials of potion as they talked over the medical read-outs from their wands; the young boy was still staring into space.

And Malfoy watched her with unreadable eyes.

Hermione released the last of her long-held tension and emptied her lungs in a defeated breath.

“What happened?” she said, her tone gentle as she turned back to face him.

Malfoy scoffed. “Gran-”

“Enough!” Hermione barked; the burn of her veins ignited the short, exhausted fuse of the temper as her eyes searched his. “Just… enough,” she repeated quieter this time.

Malfoy’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click as he looked off to the side, huffing a sigh through his nose as his brows furrowed into a scowl.

“Why won’t you tell me?” Hermione asked.

She watched his throat move as he swallowed.

She tore her eyes away from the movement.

“Malfoy…”

“They killed her.’

Hermione stopped, stricken. She was about to ask who when Parkinson’s limp body flashed in her mind once again.

Her hand shot to her mouth from shock.

“Park-”

“Yes.” Malfoy curled his fingers tighter around the foot of the bed, his knuckles whitening from his grip.

Hermione shifted uneasily, unsure of the turn the conversation had taken. Sure, she had assumed someone had died –

But had she really?

And then, when she had seen Parkinson, she had just assumed she was unconscious not…

“How?”

Malfoy’s expression darkened. “She went looking for Theo.”

Hermione blanched. “Theo?”

“Yes Theo!” he snapped viciously as he turned back to her. “Are you going to continue to inanely repeat everything I say?”

“Where’s Theo?” Hermione continued, ignoring his worsening temperament as the all too familiar unease settled in her bones.

Malfoy shrugged and then immediately winced, hissing a string of colourful curses as he pulled at his injured wing.

“Ask him,” he grunted as he motioned with a jerk of his chin towards Blaise.

Hermione raised her brow and turned to the other man.

“Where’s Theo?” she asked with a raised voice. Blaise stilled as his eyes snapped up and darted between the two of them while the Healers continued the spellwork on his side.

She watched with growing frustration as the two men had some kind of silent communication.

“The woman,” Blaise began when he eventually pulled himself from his interlude with Malfoy. “The woman who met with Potter and us about the manuscript. She took him last night.”

Hermione opened her mouth and quickly closed it as white noise sounded in her ears.

Eris Iskander took Theo… _but why…_

“Where were you?” she said, turning back to Malfoy who looked at her affronted.

“Don’t even fucking look at me, I was only filled in on the whole fucking thing _after_ they had gone,” he snipped.

Hermione dismissed his defence with a flippant wave of her hand. “No, I wasn’t implying _that,_ I meant, were you there? Did she see you at the club?”

Malfoy paused, his brows rising in surprise. “Well yes, I was there. I needed a drink after -” his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he cut himself off. “So yes, she saw me. She plied us with drinks. Had I _known-_ ”

“Yeah, yeah I’m sorry,” Blaise drawled from the other side of the room.

“Fuck,” Hermione hissed as she scrambled to connect the dots.

_Iskander is sniffing around Malfoy._

_But if she is the procurer for the Enlightened, why not take him?_

_Why take Theo?_

Hermione felt a headache begin to form behind her eye as she looked at the puzzle from all sides.

_And then Parkinson goes after him and winds up dead._

“Whose blood are you wearing?” she asked Malfoy.

He looked at her, assessing before he replied softly: “The cunts who killed her.”

Hermione nodded. Assuming that they were Enlightened too, that meant that group would now know of some their own missing were missing - thanks to Malfoy. Potentially may know of Pansy’s connection to Malfoy…

And then she’d arrived to see Montague - of all Aurors - conveniently waiting to take Malfoy in.

_Fuck._

She threw him a withering look as she pulled her wand from her holster.

“What?” he asked, offended.

“In less than twenty-four hours you manage to throw yourself right in the enemies hands not _once_ but _twice!_ ” She shook her head in disbelief.

Malfoy raised a brow as his sharp eyes narrowed. “Like I said Granger, hypocrisy doesn’t suit you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she turned away from him to cast a murmured “ _expecto patronum.”_

“Harry, ground floor, room…” she angled her head for a better look at the door, “six hundred and seventy-four. Get here quick and play nice.”

She watched the silvery wisp of her otter’s tail disappear out of the door just as a familiar face appeared.

“Healer Morin,” Hermione said, surprise evident in her tone.

“Miss Granger,” the older man smiled kindly as he stepped into the room. “How have you bee-”

His gaze caught on Malfoy who eyed him with derision.

“What on earth happened here?” Morin snapped as he crossed the room in brisk steps and rounded the bed, bustling the younger healers out of the way.

“I fell,” Malfoy offered lamely; he looked to Hermione in askance as the healer started clucking and tutting over the wing, like a scolding mother.

“’Mione?” She looked over as Harry paused in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. Since she had sent him back from Scotland, he had set up base in one of the staff rooms, using it as a base to co-ordinate first-hand ordered communication between Kingsley, the Scottish Office, DoM and St Mungo’s. That, and he hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone, and so had managed to convince the Healers to let him help them triage at the peak of the waves.

He looked as exhausted as Hermione felt.

She watched the way he glanced back and forth between Malfoy and herself.

“We’re all saved,” Malfoy drawled as Harry stepped into the room. Hermione tsked at him in admonishment; he lifted a perfect white brow in response.

“What the fuck happen to you?” Harry asked as he approached, eyeing Malfoy warily. Hermione bit the inside of her lip as she watched them gauge each other. It was like seeing two animals meet in the wild, unsure of whether the other was predator or prey.

Malfoy gave Hermione a withering look before turning to Harry. “I fell over.”

Harry narrowed his eyes before turning to Hermione in askance.

She shrugged. 

He nodded.

“You should look where you’re going next time then,” Harry quipped seriously. Malfoy’s features were a picture of boredom.

Healer Morin lifted the injured wing slightly and hummed thoughtfully.

“This is going to sting a bit my boy, it’s a bit finicky back here,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll give you something for the pain.”

“Is it going to take long?” Malfoy griped.

Harry caught Hermione’s eye and gave her a curious look as his eyes flicked over to Malfoy.

_What?_

Hermione shook her head slightly with a frown, confused. Harry’s movements became more exaggerated as he indicated towards Malfoy.

“That entirely depends,” Morin replied as he focused on measuring out a potion. He muttered to the younger Healers and Healer Stanton, who withdrew his wand and began a scan on the part of the wing that connected to Malfoy’s back.

“On?” Malfoy asked, his voice tinged with barely restrained impatience.

“On how easily your Humerus pops back into place,” Morin replied lightly. “Though it’s not a bad dislocation, I think the injury is being exacerbated by the size of your wingspan. _But,_ ” he exclaimed in a triumphant tone as he brandished the tube of potion to Malfoy to drink. “I have a suspicion there is further damage to the impact site which looks to be centred around the humerus and the blade of scapula,” he said in a scholarly tone as he peered at Malfoy’s back again.

Harry cleared his throat loudly.

Hermione’s attention snapped to him. A small smirk of amusement danced around his lips as she scowled at him.

“You’re the one that summoned me here,” he said flippantly. Hermione rolled her eyes and brushed past him as she headed to the door; her shoulder bumped his while he sniggered.

**Snap**

Hermione whirled around as she reached the door to see Malfoy go rigid; every tendon stood taut as his eyes scrunched close. His fangs sunk into his lip as if in a desperate attempt to stop any noise from escaping his mouth. She made to step in his direction when Harry’s head swayed into her view, his green eyes glinting wickedly under the frame of his glasses.

_…yeah, that didn’t happen._

Hermione stepped back into the corridor, her thoughts simultaneously racing as they were also trying to suppress one another.

One the one hand: _I need to get a grip, it’s….him!_

On the other: “Harry,” she said, rounding on him as soon as he joined her out of the room. “Pansy Parkinson is dead,” she said bluntly as she sifted through the myriad of theories.

“Oh shit,” Harry replied, as his brows disappeared under his hair before they snapped into a deep frown of suspicion. “Was it Mal-”

“ _No!_ For Merlin’s sake,” she hissed, as she glanced around to ensure that his voice hadn’t magically carried into the room. Considering how defensive Malfoy had been, she could only imagine the fall-out if he actually heard.

Harry’s look of surprise returned. “Then how did it happen?”

“The Enlightened I think, she went after…” she paused.

Harry looked searchingly at her as he waited; he folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight, his expression darkening.

“Went after who?” he said quietly. “The Selkie? Did she get a lead?”

It was Hermione’s turn for surprise.

_Yes,_ she thought in wonder as she realised that Parkinson would have had to have been in the same vicinity as the Enlightened in order for –

“Yes she got a lead on them but no.” She glanced cautiously up to his serious expression. “She went after Theo.”

Harry’s frown deepened.

“I-” a few strands of hair fell across his forehead as he shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Hermione bit back a sigh as she began to retell the information as Blaise and Malfoy had relayed it to her.

“I don’t understand,” Harry repeated, quieter.

“I’m sorry Harry,” Hermoine tried but he turned away, shaking his head.

“Nothing to be sorry for, you didn’t fucking take him did you?!” he growled as he ran a hand aggressively through his hair.

“No but-”

“Exactly, and it’s not anything to me,” he said forcefully as he turned back to her, his arms wide by his side. “I don’t give a shit.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but quailed as Harry continued.

“I mean, of course I _care,_ ” he said almost as if to himself, “he’s another human being right?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek as she nodded before she spoke: “I’m pretty sure he’s human, yes.”

Harry looked at her with exasperation. “You know what I mean.”

Hermione placed her hands in her pockets as he began to pace the stretch of corridor before her. “Not really, it’s a valid question with this lot.” She motioned her head towards the doorway.

Harry grunted in response as he bit at the side of his thumb. She could practically see the gears turning within his mind.

“What could Iskander possibly want with him?” he asked. The way that Iskander’s name fell from his lips, made it sound like an utterance of an Unforgivable.

Hermione wiped her hand across her forehead in an attempt to massage the headache that had now properly formed.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Those two were there, weren’t they?” Harry said, his eyes alight with the all too familiar tinge of mania.

But at this point, Hermione couldn’t begrudge it; she needed Harry doing what he did best.

“Yes, they were – listen,” she hissed as she stopped him from storming back into the room. He looked down at her hand as if it burned him. “Just listen one second,” Hermione continued, “I need to get back to Scotland –Tal and the others…”

Harry sobered for a moment and he turned to face her, his head nodding in understanding. “Yes, yes of course.”

She took a deep breath, shoring herself for his reaction to her next suggestion. “I need you to be this lot’s bodyguard.”

Harry made as if he were about to argue before he suddenly stopped, his features relaxing as he nodded his agreement.

“Sure,” he said easily.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Because Malfoy needs to be kept from the Enlightened and he’s already ended up on their radar twice in twenty-four hours – and Montague and some other Auror have already been here threatening to take him in.”

“Sure, sure, yeah,” Harry replied easily, nodding his head.

“And I know it’s hi-”

“ _Hermione,_ ” he interrupted, “it’s fine. Go, I’ve got him.”

Hermione looked between his green eyes before nodding to herself and stepping away.

“When I’m done in Scotland, we’ll find Theo okay?” she said, as she walked backwards, down the corridor.

Harry nodded and waved her off. “Sure, sounds like a plan,” he said as he turned and went back into the room. Hermione pursed her lips in worry before shaking herself of her thoughts. With a puffed breath, she spun and headed away from the room, every step echoing with determination down the corridor.

**_19:07 pm, 13th of September 1999 - St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London, UK._ **

“Fuck,” Draco hissed as Morin knitted bone back together with a wave of his wand. The pain that radiated from his wing and his shoulder had surpassed the level where it was measurable and now had evolved into the type of pain that seemed existential and unending. 

“Nearly finished now,” Mornin said placatingly before he muttered directions to his team. Draco let out a tremulous stream of breath as he hung his head. Between the physical pain, the grief that was sinking into his bones and the flayed-feeling of being near Granger, he was exhausted. 

He could still feel where her gentle touch had burned his skin, melting the ice in his chest. 

The smell of nutmeg layered under leather and earth lingered intoxicatingly around him.

Draco had had to bury his claws into the mattress to stop himself from reaching out to her as she had stepped away from him. 

He looked up to the movement in the corner of his eye to see Potter re-enter the room. Draco’s gaze slid over Potter to remain fixed on the door - waiting. 

“Zabini, Malfoy, uh,” Potter said, as he reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “My condolences for Miss Parkinson.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut against the sudden surge of a wave within him. 

“Thanks,” Blaise replied bleakly. 

“Deep breath Mr Malfoy,” Morin muttered. 

Draco sucked in a breath between clenched teeth as the **snap** of bone slotting back into place reverberated through his body. 

“I uh,” Potter began again. 

_One of the greatest wizards of our time and he can’t even finish a fucking sentence,_ Draco thought venomously through the white noise of pain. 

His gaze slid back to the door. 

_Where is she?_

“Look there’s absolutely no right way to say this so I’m just going to be blunt,” Potter said as he scrubbed a hand through his ridiculous hair. “I heard that Miss Parkinson was going after Theo.” 

Draco’s brow shot up in surprise and he tore his gaze momentarily from the door to focus on Potter. 

“Yeah,” Blaise began, “the wom-”

Harry nodded. “I heard. You’re going to tell me everything you know.” 

“Where is she?” Draco asked before he could stop himself. 

Potter turned to him. “Who?”

Draco quirked a brow. “The other righteous one of your group.”

“Hermione?” Potter said, turning fully to Draco with his quintessential signature look: the perfect blend of vacant gormlessness and suspicion that had haunted Draco for many years in school.

“Well I’m obviously not talking about the ginger twit am I,” Draco sniped. 

Potter returned with an unamused look before answering, “She’s gone to Scotland.” 

The ice refroze in the place that had thawed at her touch with such aggression and violence he swore he could hear the crackling of frost as it settled anew in his chest. 

“Mr Malfoy,” Morin said from behind him. “I’m going to need you to try and retract your wings.” 

Draco almost laughed at the Healer as he looked at him with incredulity over his shoulder. 

“I’ve done all I can for them out here, but the magic will heal them faster within,” Morin explained as he wiped off his hands. 

“Scotland?” Blaise repeated. “What’s so important in Scotland that she had to rush off?”

Draco swallowed thickly as his eyes slid hopelessly to the door before dropping to the floor. He breathed out, calling the tundra to the forefront of his mind. _She’s in Scotland?!_ He breathed steadily in. _Why the fuck is she going to Scotland when -_ He forcibly relaxed his tense muscles, somewhat relishing in their loosening. 

“Perfect,” he heard Morin say just as the overwhelming sense of relief from his unburdened back washed over him. “I’ll just get these bruises and cuts now, alright?” Morin asked as he bumbled off in search of something. Draco stretched out his neck and winced at the sharp twinge of pain down his spine. 

“Evacuation. You saw the lobby when you came in right?.”

At Potter’s words, Draco looked up to meet his steady green gaze that narrowed further in suspicion. 

_Shit,_ Draco thought as he fought to keep his expression neutral. At some point, he realised he must have done something to trigger Potter's 'suspicious' look - a look he was far too familiar with. It was one thing to handle the Boy-Manchild Wonder in his gormless state, but his preternatural ability to sense when Draco was hiding something was less than convenient.

“Yeah we saw the lobby,” Blaise replied. “Is that to do with Scotland?” 

Potter slowly tipped his head to nod as he held Draco’s gaze almost in challenge. 

“Yes,” he said simply. “Creature War is the tagline.” 

Draco fought to keep a straight face as his pulse rocketed, thumping a cacophony in his veins. He was filled with dread as Fear lovingly cooed into his ear. 

_First Theo is missing, then Pans’ dead, now my -_

He huffed a breath and dropped his head between his shoulders as a pang of pain resonated through him. 

“A war?” he heard Blaise say.

Draco felt the ghost of her touch burn faintly against the ice beneath his skin. 

“Yep,” Potter replied, popping the ‘P’. Draco looked up to see him leaned against Charlie’s bed. “Alright mate?” Potter said genially to the small boy who nodded hesitantly to his warm grin.

Draco had never hated him more. 

“It’s a race against the clock to see if they can contain the situation before the creatures get to Inverness,” Potter continued. 

“But why her?” Even to his own ears, Draco heard it, so he wasn’t surprised at all when Potter’s head snapped back to him, his eyes narrowing with outright accusation. 

“She’s leading the DoM up there, we were there when shit went down,” Potter replied. 

A sudden memory of a Granger leaving the library via floo after the appearance of the Patronus came to mind. 

“But why aren’t you with her?” Draco asked, almost whining as adrenaline coursed through his veins and Fear tightened her embrace around him. 

Potter tilted his head infuriatingly in quiet contemplation as he assessed him. Draco curled his fingers, whitening his grip on the end of the bed as he straightened his posture and tilted his chin - much to Morin’s chagrin as he tried to apply salve to Draco’s back. 

“I’m here because I got an arrow through the shoulder. I’ve been coordinating offices and triaging since,” Potter said quietly. The lack of bite or agenda in his voice took Draco by surprise. “She’s going alone,” Potter continued, holding his gaze. 

Draco bit his lip and the ice crept further and Fear breathed against his neck. 

“Is that a good idea?” Draco asked. His breath caught in his chest as he teetered on the edge of a precipice, waiting for Potter’s answer. 

Draco watched as Potter scrubbed a hand over his stubble in thought before turning back to him, his gaze intense with accusation as he announced. “It’s not, no. She shouldn’t be alone.” 

Draco stood suddenly, alarming Morin who swore colourfully.

“Mr Malfoy, no, sit down, you’re in no fi-”

“Where the fuck are you going?” Blaise exclaimed.

“She’ll be heading to the floos,” Potter said. “But Malfoy.” 

Draco paused as he picked up the tattered remains of his shirt. “Do something with this would you?” he muttered to Blaise who looked at him in bewilderment. “Yes, Potter?” Draco continued impatiently.

Potter seemed to be having some sort of conniption. 

“Why?” he said.

Draco huffed. “Why what?”

Potter sucked a tooth as he scowled off to the side in frustration. “What am I missing here? You hate her and yet - rightly so - you’re clearly not happy with the idea that she’s running off into war, so what am I missing?” 

Draco took the transfigured long sleeve black jumper from Blaise and threw it over his head.

“It’s really none of your business,” Draco snipped.

“It’s exactly my business. She’s _my_ family,” Potter replied, his tone hardening. “Look,” he sighed derisively, “consider this a trade. I’m going to go after Theo because…” he faltered and looked at the floor. 

Draco turned to Blaise who merely smirked knowingly.

“Just because he’s something,” Potter finished weakly. Draco looked between Blaise and Potter, understanding slowly dawning. 

“Oh,” Draco statedly lamely. “Um… right.” He cleared his throat and swiped a hand through his hair. “You should probably get him back then.” 

Potter snorted indelicately. “That’s the plan. So, why the fuck should I trust you with my Hermione’s life?” 

_Fuck._

Fear stroked his cheek lovingly as she whispered torturous things into his ear. 

“I won’t hurt her,” Draco tried. 

Potter shifted to fold his arms across his chest, unimpressed. 

Draco sighed as he became increasingly aware of the time that it had taken them to get this far.

_She’ll be gone._

He shifted his weight from either foot as he glanced from the door to Potter. 

_But he’s her friend and… fuck._

Fear reached into his chest and wrapped her taloned fingers around his heart as he looked into Potter’s eyes. 

“As you’re aware, I’m a Veela,” Draco began, his voice cracking as he spoke. “She’s my mate.”

“For fuck sake,” Blaise groaned beside him as Potter’s eyes widened in surprise and his mouth dropped to the gormless look that Draco despised. 

“And if that information leaves this room,” he continued, levelling each Healer who remained present with a glare, “I will have no qualms with killing any of you.” He turned back to Potter, “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Potter ran a hand through his hair as his other went to his hip. 

“Yeah, yeah, go,” he said. “Don’t fuck up Malfoy.” 

Silver eyes met green as they passed. 

“Right back at you Potter.” 

Draco broke into a sprint as soon as he was free of the room. He skirted around Meditwitches and bumbling patients, nearly careened with a Mediwizard carrying a tray of potions, until finally, he burst into the lobby. 

He scanned the room, his heart hammering in his chest, desperation colouring his every breath. 

Everywhere he looked, injured and bleeding people waited listlessly. Floos plumed to life, belching more wounded to the floor as the air littered with the **pops** and **cracks** of apparitions. 

Fear’s talons clutched his racing heart tighter. 

_Not her_ , he thought. _I can’t, not today._

He started to push his way through the crowd, his eyes scanning across every head. 

Too young. 

Too old.

Too bald. 

Too male.

With every rejected face, his stress heightened, to the point that he considered getting the floo address from one of the many, and just going there to drag her back. 

A baby let out a sharp sudden wail, attracting the attention of everyone in the room. The mother gently rocked the baby back and forth, tapping its back gently as she murmured soft words. It was as she turned away from the onlookers that Draco saw Granger waiting in line for one of the fireplaces. 

Next to leave. 

She reached for the pot.

“GRANGER!” he barked with a sudden burst of frightened anger, as he closed the distance between them in long strides. She flinched at the sound and whirled to face him; it almost stopped him in his tracks when he saw that her eyes remained molten honey instead of dulling to the familiar deadened hue. 

“Malfoy, what on earth are you doing?” she demanded. 

“Me?” he sniped at her. “What are _you_ doing running off into a fucking warzone?!” 

His fingers shook with fury as he clamped down on the wave that shot to his fingertips. 

“I know this may be a foreign concept to you, but some of us fight in wars Malfoy,” she sneered back at him. “Besides, I’m literally doing my job. What ar-”

He didn't give her a chance to finish as he crowded her space and growled through gritted teeth: "Just because I didn't fight next to you Granger, doesn't mean I wasn't fighting against you." The minimal space between them was fraught with tension, set to snap at any moment as he loomed over, his body tense with barely restrained malice. Her lips tightened as she tipped her chin defiantly. “Now,” he continued, “what fucking hair-brained idea that will inevitably get you killed are you following now?” 

She reared back, outraged. “I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing,” she hissed as she stepped closer, poking an accusatory pointed finger into his chest. “But I don’t need to explain myself to you. Now back, the fuck, off.” She accentuated every pause with the stab of her finger into his chest and on the final one, Draco’s hand swiped up, trapping her. 

“Let go right now,” she growled as she tried to yank herself free. “I swear Malfoy, I wi-”

“What Granger,” he sneered as he stepped ever closer, “what’s the big bad Spook going to do?”

Within a blink of an eye, Draco felt the pressing point of a wand at his throat. 

He looked into her eyes. 

Molten honey. 

_Curious._

“Let me go,” Granger said between clenched teeth.

“Not a chance, Spook,” Draco said in a low voice. “I’ve already had one person die on me today because they thought they could take on the world alone - it gets boring if I have to go through it twice.” 

Granger blinked, her pink lips parting in surprise. Their faces were so close that he could see the flecks of amber and honeydew in her eyes as he drowned in the scent of nutmeg and leather. 

“So,” Draco said, as he flexed his long fingers around her wrist, her wand still pressed to his throat, their ragged breaths mingling between them. “The way I see it, you have two options. Either you stop this ridiculous behaviour,” Granger bared her teeth as her eyes flashed with fury. “ _Or_ ,” he continued, “I’ll just have to come with you.” It amused him to see her temper freeze with surprise. 

“That’s preposterous, you can’t possibly think I would take you with me,” she stated, alarmed. “It’s literally my job to protect you at the moment. What could possibly lead you to believe I would willingly take you to a warzone?!”

Draco chuckled darkly and he tightened his grip on her wrist, his thumb slipping just beneath the cuff of her uniform sleeve to catch on the soft skin beneath. 

“I adore how you think you have a choice in that regard,” he said, a smirk slipping onto his lips as his thumb swiped against the inside of her wrist. “Your only choice is whether to stay or go, but know if you go, I go with you which, as you say, won’t look good on your pristine record, now will it?”

Granger’s wand pressed more insistently into his neck. 

He leaned in further. 

“Do it, go on,” he breathed. They were so close, their lips were almost touching. “I know you want to.”

Granger pressed her wand harder still until she pulled it away with a frustrated growl. 

“Fuck you,” she seethed. 

“Fuck you too,” he quipped with acidic joy. “So have you come to your senses then?”

She reached with the hand that was trapped in his, and caught his collar with her nimble fingers. With a jerk, she yanked him closer, twisting the material to a chokehold. 

“You listen to me, those innocent people are more important than you. So yes, I’m going to Scotland and there is _nothing you could do or say that would stop me_ ,” she growled. 

For the first time in days, the Veela within him stirred, creaking from the frost and ice. 

Draco smirked ruefully. 

“I love Scotland this time of year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...am I forgiven yet? 
> 
> Kudos is love and comments let me know you're there. Any thoughts and theories?


	18. Interritus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy V-Day one all! My love to you all on this day is part 2. Thank you all for sticking with me on this journey so far. This is the end of Act 2. Chapter 19 will be the beginning of the final Act and then it's a semi-straight line to the finish line (read: the halfway point). 
> 
> I've had a couple of people ask now how many parts this will be, as it stands this plotline will *hopefully* be 2 parts (I say hopefully because you know how it is sometimes when characters don't play ball). However, I'm thinking of created a collection of oneshots to fill in scenes that are shown by the main plot. Let me know if that's something you would be interested in? 
> 
> Canttouchthis is forever my guiding saviour who makes me ramblings, make sense. If you haven't already, go and check out her stuff, I highly recommend! https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canttouchthis/pseuds/Canttouchthis.
> 
> TRIGGERS - Blood / violence / panic / gore. If I have missed any, please let me know! 
> 
> Without further ado, grab a drink and a snack, and enjoy... and I do so hope you've been paying attention...

**_An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life._ **

**_“A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy. “It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”_ **

**_He continued, “The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too.”_ **

**_The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”_ **

**_The Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”_ **

_\- Billy Graham - The Story of Two Wolves_

**Chapter 18 - Interritus**

* * *

_Well, have you been?_

**_19:23 pm 13th September 1999 - Somewhere near Dochgarroch, Loch Ness, Inverness, The Scottish Highlands_ **

Draco stood in the centre of a camp. Granger had left him moments before with a stern instruction to ‘not move’. And while he was loath to let her out of his sight, the order gave him an opportunity to just be still. 

The sun was setting behind the valleys that rose around them, lengthening the shadows that reached around the make-shift tents. Six days - Nearly a whole week. That’s how long it had been since his inheritance. He took a deep breath, scenting the burnt tang of the crackling fire that drifted upon the Scottish breeze that was seasoned with hidden notes of sodden earth and hints of metallic iron. 

It was an unfortunate coincidence that this was a bouquet of smells he had come to associate with Scotland - blood and soil. 

In a week, his life had fundamentally changed. Six days ago, he had paced the confines of the same four walls, had tracked the same few constellations, had observed the same patch of sky that he had done for fourteen months with no immediate end in sight. 

He absently scratched at the Dark Mark that was hidden under the sleeve of his transfigured jumper as his gaze followed the embers that drifted up from the flames into the darkening, open sky. 

In the space of a few days, everything had changed. 

He was a creature with alien magic. 

His mother was in the hospital for addiction. 

His best friend had been kidnapped by a crazed cult. 

His other best friend had been killed by the same cult, he assumed. 

He’d had a somewhat civil conversation with Potter. 

And he’d followed Granger willingly into a warzone. 

There was a war to walk into. 

He was free.

Granger.

Draco bit off a sigh as he felt his magic stir at the thought of her. The same gnawing hunger groaned, only now he could no longer deny what it yearned for. A part of him considered that maybe, _just maybe,_ the future might not be so bleak. For some reason, she hadn’t _physically_ cursed him. For some reason, his presence no longer extinguished the fire in her eyes - a fact that he begrudgingly admitted to himself gave him immeasurable pleasure. 

If he was honest with himself, he was numb with shock. There was too much, too soon, too fast to process. Everything was happening at too quick of a pace for him to brace for the next thing coming. The only constant that had remained true through it all had been the suffocating hold of Fear that had been his constant companion for years, and only seemed to tighten her grip with every passing day. 

He watched as a man hobbled towards the fire that crackled merrily in the open air. The side of the man’s face was caked in mud, his hair stuck at impossible angles, his forehead glistening with sweat as his chest heaved in gasping breath. He didn’t notice, nor seem to care that Draco stood on the other side of the firepit; with jerky actions, the man pulled off his gloves, almost as if he was desperate to be rid of them before he then held his quivering, filthy hands out over the open flame. The most striking detail was the way the flames reflected in his haunted eyes. It was only then that it struck Draco that this blend of exhausted horror was the same look he had seen on every face since arriving. 

“Here,” Granger said as she shoved something toward him, startling him from his reverie. He looked down in disgust as an offensive smell assaulted his nose. 

“What did I do to deserve whatever that thing is?” he demanded. 

Granger gave him an unimpressed look before she thrust the stinking thing into his chest. 

“I’m sorry it’s not couture, but you’re in Scotland wearing only a jumper and the sun’s going down. Put the damn cloak on, I can’t be bothered with you freezing to death.” She didn’t give him time to refuse before she turned and stalked down the muddy path that lay between two tents. 

“Fucking woman,” Draco grumbled as he shook out the leather cloak. He eyed it sceptically as he started to follow her, noting that the leather-looking material was covered in more mud than what was beneath his feet. Again Draco thanked whatever Gods watched over him as the heavy boots he had chosen to wear that morning made easy work of the quagmire, rather than the hand-stitched Italian dragon-leather Chelsea boots he had been eyeing.

He swung the cloak on and was marginally surprised by how well it fitted him. 

“Kudos where it’s deserved Granger, well done for finding one that fits,” he drawled as he caught up to her. 

“I didn’t,” she replied, distracted as she picked her way through the tent maze. 

Draco frowned slightly. “You didn’t, what?” 

“Pick it - I transfigured it,” she replied as she turned left. 

A smirk pulled at Draco’s lips. “I had no idea you’re so attentive to my measurements.”

The only indication that she heard him was the way her lips pursed before she pushed ahead.

They walked in silence as they wound further and further through the maze of tents. 

“Where are we going?” he asked as they passed what seemed to be the fifteenth medical tent that was brimming with frenetic activity. 

“Control,” she replied briskly; they parted to allow for a harried group of muddied people carrying a woman whose entire side seemed to have been torn to shreds, to pass through.

“What’s in control?” he asked as he dragged his eyes from the hanging, bloodied flesh.

Though there was no denying that Granger held herself with the ease and stance of someone who was highly trained, where every movement was measured and performed with purpose, it had been an amusing realisation to Draco that she seemed to be incapable of truly hiding her thoughts. At first glance, she was as unreadable as the best occlumens, but the more he watched her, the more he saw her tells: a twitch of a lip here, a strain of the tendons in her neck as she tensed her jaw, there. As they passed another firepit, he watched in fascination as her pink tongue swiped unconsciously over her bottom lip, gently drawing it into her mouth, only to let it graze her top teeth in a tease of a bite. 

She didn’t want to say whatever the answer was. 

And though that fact annoyed him, he knew that this tell of hers had just taken the top spot on the list of his favourites. 

“Who does this cloak belong to anyway?” Draco asked, changing the subject. He figured he’d find out what was in Control soon enough anyway as he picked at the heavy material. He knew that she absolutely wasn’t fond of his being in Scotland, and so didn’t he feel inclined to make it worse at that _particular_ moment in time. 

But then, Draco also knew that he was as fickle as the wind and that this truce was likely to end sooner rather than later. 

“A colleague,” Granger replied shortly with a brief glance over her shoulder.

“Unspeakable?” he replied with mild surprise, that only increased at her nod of confirmation. A uniform was a symbol of status, a status that was purely not for the likes of him and for Granger to be the one to hand it to him? “Won’t the owner miss it?” he asked cautiously. 

“Not likely,” Granger replied bluntly. “He’s dead.” Before Draco could even process that thought - let alone reply - she rounded on him. “Control is the tent ahead. You will behave in there, you hear me? Not a fucking step out of line Malfoy.” 

Draco looked from the larger circular tent that lay at the end of the path, down at her, amused by her irreproachability. 

“Or what?” he replied, pocketing his hands as he stepped lightly once more into her space. The movement was as automatic and unconscious as the earth orbiting the sun. “Will I end up like the person who wore this before me?” He smirked as he leant down as if to share a secret. “Is this some secret Spook code where you mark people for death by giving them smelly clothes?” 

_Well, that truce lasted long, good effort ol’ boy._

Granger held his gaze for a moment, her golden eyes aflame, her hair wild in the Scottish winds. Draco quietly admitted to himself that she did cast a strikingly formidable silhouette. 

“Don’t,” was all she said, her voice low, her mouth serious, before she spun on her heel and marched towards the looming tent before them. 

A twinge of guilt twisted in his chest as Draco set off after her. _Too far._

He fell quietly into step with her and reached for the canvas flap, holding it open for her to duck underneath his arm. He had just about concluded that yes, perhaps he should apologise when he ducked his head to enter the tent and saw the reason why she placed such demands of ‘good behaviour’ on him.

The tent itself was bustling with people darting from one post to another, but in the centre of the room lay a large table covered in maps and compasses. Leant over the table was an unfortunately familiar shade of ginger that never failed to set his teeth on edge. 

Ronald Weasley glanced up at the sound of their entrance. 

“‘Mione I -”

He had just resumed his perusal of the map when his head whipped back up for a comical double-take; his jaw dropped as his eyes locked with Draco’s. 

“Wha-” he began.

“Malfoy is here with me,” Granger said curtly, cutting him off. “What’s the latest?”

Weasley didn’t move, his gaze still focused on Draco who raised an eyebrow in challenge. 

_I could do with a fight today…_

As if coming to his senses, Weasley straightened from his hunched position. He threw his pencil down on the table as he stepped out and around it. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” he demanded, his pale cheeks reddening with aggressive blotches. 

Granger’s eyes narrowed as her fingers curled at her sides. 

“I think we have more important things to be worrying about right now Ronald,” she sighed. 

“Absolutely not ‘Mione, I thought you said it was a fucking slip of the fucking tongue!” Weasley hissed viciously. “At least Harry isn’t bringing his pet Death Eater here.”

“I would like to point out that I’m the one behaving like a civilised person here,” Draco said drily to Granger as he and Weasley sized each other up. The twit certainly had filled out over the years. Draco supposed this might be the first time that he might be grateful for the added creature benefits. 

“Seriously?!” Granger griped to him, with a bewildered look over her shoulder. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Weasley growled.

Draco shrugged as he nonchalantly stepped in front of Granger, blocking a seething Weasel’s path to her. 

A move that did not go unnoticed as said Weasel’s shoulders tensed an inch higher.

“I felt the need to point it out, just in case there was any confusion,” Draco said flippantly as he pulled one of his hands from his pockets to scratch at the blood that had dried in a cuticle. 

Weasley laughed derisively. “‘Mione, you have five fucking seconds to give a fucking pristine explanation for why the Ferret is in my Control.” 

“Oh, are you Granger’s superior? ” Draco asked with assumed innocence. He turned to face the glowering woman who stood in his shadow. “ _Is_ he your boss?” 

Granger met his gaze with a look of barely concealed contempt. He watched in fascination as the gold flecks in her irises glittered like the embers that floated from the flames before disappearing into the dusk.

Without a word, she stepped out from around him, brushing her shoulder against him to move him aside. 

“I neither have the time nor the patience for this,” she said dismissively as she stepped up to the table. “So, I’ll ask again - what’s the latest?” 

Draco’s brow rose as he smirked at the way she confidently slipped into command. Weasley looked back and forth between the two; Draco could practically hear the inner turmoil that played out over his features. He saw the exact moment Weasley decided to double-down, unable to let the issue go as Granger wanted. 

Just then, a draft of cold air burst in as the flap of the tent opened. 

“Oh my.” 

Draco’s heart squeezed in his chest as he turned towards the familiar voice. 

“Evening,” he said softly to Daphne, who held a trembling hand to her mouth. She looked the same as everyone else; covered in mud and exhausted, except somehow, as to be expected with Daphne Greengrass, she somehow made the whole affair seem purposeful and artistic. Tears quickly filled her eyes as she let out a small hiccup before hurling herself forward and into his embrace. 

“You bastard,” she said into his chest. 

“I missed you too,” he murmured as he pulled her close. His chest gave a keen of pain as the sense of familiarity washed over him. Familiarity that held memories of Daphne and Pansy being inseparable opposite counterparts to Blaise and Theo. He tightened his hold. The way this week was going, he assumed if he let her go, she would be taken from him too.

“Well this is just fucking great,” he heard Weasley grouch. 

Daphne leaned back and peered up at his face. She reached up and brushed a gentle hand over the blood that still stained his cheek and hair. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone full of wonder as her eyes searched his. “How are you here?” She blinked as if truly seeing the state that he was in. “What’s happened?” Her tone hardened as she stepped back as if to get a fuller picture.

“Hermione brought him,” Ron spat as he trudged back to the table, his shoulders rounded, his dour expression as black as night. Daphne looked to Granger, a hesitant and confused smile on her lips. 

“That’s pleasantly unexpected,” she said, her words held a note of uncertainty at Granger’s carefully blank features. Draco bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smirking as he saw the Spook’s fingers twitch at her sides. 

Daphne turned back to Draco, her faltering smile brightening once more as she pushed past the growing tension in the room. A move that Draco had seen her make many times before, and made him love her just a little more every time. 

“Are you well? How was the trial? How is everyone?” she asked. 

And just like that, reality hit him like a cold bucket of water. 

_She doesn’t know._

Draco looked desperately at her unexpecting face, willing her to understand without him having to break the news. 

He swallowed thickly. “I -”

“ _Is_ everything okay Draco?” she asked, her brightness faltering somewhat. 

“Perhaps it would be best if you stepped outside?” Granger said gently from where she leant against the table.

Draco looked at her and noted how several people around the room hastily resumed their attentions on their workstations.

All except Weasley, whose look was so hateful that Draco didn’t even think to challenge it. Not now. 

“Sure,” he said, nodding slightly to Granger, “I’ll be just outside.” He turned with a nod of his head, opening the flap for Daphne to step through. He looked back to meet Granger’s watchful eyes that trapped him in their stare. He felt naked and vulnerable as she saw right through him. He breathed a sigh of relief as she turned away, releasing him once more. 

“So, what’s happened?” Daphne asked as he joined her by the nearest fire pit that sat directly outside the Control tent. Draco released a sigh, puffing out his cheeks. He glanced up at the now blackened night sky, noting the clouds in the distance and briefly entertained the notion of mapping the constellations before they disappeared. 

“You might want to sit down Daph.” 

**_19:58 pm 13th September 1999 - Somewhere near Dochgarroch, Loch Ness, Inverness, The Scottish Highlands_ **

Hermione stared blankly at the rivets of the table as she heard the **thwump** of the tent flap fall back into place. Silence reigned in the wake of Malfoy’s departure and she could feel the pressure of the many pairs of eyes in the room that turned to her. 

Her thoughts raced, too quick for her to grasp securely between the claws of her consciousness. She had hoped that the Scottish air would clear her senses but the unique blend of spice and sparks still clung to her from the confrontation in front of the floos. She felt a flutter in her pulse; a remaining symptom of intoxication from his proximity. The skin of her wrist still tingled from the teasing strokes of his thumb. 

To say that she had been surprised when Malfoy had cornered her in the lobby, demanding that she stayed, would be an understatement. She kept expecting him to turn caustic at any moment; to hiss and spit at her in his familiar pure-blood rapport. And yet he didn’t. For some reason that she couldn’t figure, he had come with her. He had been sarcastic and dry, and inappropriately glib, but beyond that, every move - every word from his mouth had been a surprise to her. 

She had quarrelled with herself over allowing him to follow her. On the one hand, if she was correct in her assumptions, keeping Malfoy safe from the Enlightened was a priority and so having him close to her, five hundred-odd miles away from where the cult was sniffing around, seemed like a good idea. On the other hand, ‘knowingly bringing him to an active warzone’ didn’t exactly fall into the parameters of ‘keeping him safe’. 

“What the actual fuck Hermione,” Ron hissed from his place across the table. 

She let out a deflating breath, steeling herself before she looked up to meet his furious gaze. 

“Look-”

“Don’t even think about saying that this is because of whatever that bullshit was about last time,” Ron growled as he leant over the table. “How could you bring him here?!”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Exactly what bullshit are you referring to Ronald?”

“The one about him being some sort of victim,” he sneered.

Hermione tapped her fingernails against the tabletop. “Evidently you’re just looking for a fight, seeing as you already know the answer to why he’s here.” Ron drew himself up to his full height in blazing fury. “No Ronald!” Hermione snapped, cutting him off. “I’m not doing it. I’m not fighting with you on this. He’s here for the exact reason that you have worked out. Stop playing dumb and get over it.” 

Ron scoffed nastily. “You can’t expect me to _actually_ believe that _this,_ ” he gestured vaguely between her and the tent entrance, “is some altruistic thing. I saw the way that you two were looking at each other.” He slammed his hand down on the table. “Don’t _fucking lie to me Hermione!_ ”

The tent was so quiet that Hermione could hear the murmur of conversation outside. Ron’s temper was broiling and his frame shook with rage. 

“It would be a wise decision for you to take a breath and calm yourself,” she replied with deadly composure. 

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down when you bring that _thing_ in here,” Ron spat. 

Hermione cocked her head as she took a mental step back to assess her friend. His temper was to be expected, sure, there wasn’t any circumstance or scenario where those two meeting again would end well. 

And sure, Ron was under significant pressure what with everything that was going on. 

But that didn’t account for… _this._

She replayed the scene back in her head and, like a lightbulb, saw the exact moment things had gone from bad to catastrophically awful. 

“They’re old friends and she hasn’t seen him since he’s been in Azkaban,” she said coolly. 

Ron went suddenly still. 

“Gotta have an answer for everything haven’t you,” he sneered, as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Would you like to continue arguing or do you want to tell me what the latest is so we can do our jobs and I can get Malfoy out of here?” 

His face twisted as if he were sucking a lemon as he continued to hold her gaze. 

“ _Fine,_ ” he finally capitulated. He reached for the map on the table in front of him before he looked back up to her with a pointed glare. “But this isn’t over.”

“Sure,” she said nonchalantly, as she gestured to the parchment in his hands. “Well?” 

Ron swiped a hand down his cheek and breathed a tremendous sigh. “We lost the post at Ault-na-Goire.” 

Hermione’s jaw dropped, stricken. “But that’s -”

“Yes, I know. I’ve redirected the Scottish reinforcements to Faralyne and Gorthleck,” he replied wearily. “I’m hoping the introduction of another loch might slow them down from spreading out across the Highlands. But if they break this line, I -” he stopped and looked bleakly at the map, his eyes roving the page. “I’ve got nothing, if they breach that line, they’ll be too spread out to easily contain.”

Hermione leant heavily against the table as she processed the thought. The yeti and the centaur were whipped into a frenzy, indiscriminately killing everything in their path and dragging other magical creatures into the fray. If they weren’t able to hold back the creature’s lateral push out from Loch Ness into the rest of Scotland, then it wouldn’t be long before the Muggle world sat up and paid attention. Similarly, if they reached Inverness...

“And the line at Drumnadrochit?” she asked. 

“Finally gone,” Ron replied bluntly. “We’re holding at Balchraggan.” 

Hermione sucked a tooth. “Any movement on the Merpeople?”

“We’ve got patrols up and down the River Ness. We’re getting reports of the occasional breaching pod but they don’t really try hard to fight back,” he swiped a thumb over his lip. “It feels like they’re testing the defences.”

“Right,” Hermione said bleakly. “So where do you need me right now? Still on Evac?”

Ron gave her a pointed look. “Well I was going to ask you for a particular mission of sorts but not now,” he shook his head slightly. “No, stick to evac.” 

Hermione raised a pointed brow. “Are you pulling me from it because of Malfoy?” 

“Yes I am pulling you from it because of Malfoy,” he replied exasperatedly. “I’m not about to send you behind enemy lines with a fucking psychopath at your back!” He wildly gestured in frustration. “It’s fine, I’ll wait till Taliesin comes back.” 

“Ronald, just tell me.”

“But-”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Hermio-”

“No!” she snapped, her eyes ablaze. “Tell me _right_ now. I am sick of unqualified men trying to tell me I can’t do my fucking job today.”

Ron blinked before he reared back, regaining his bluster. “It’s not that I’m saying you can’t do your job Hermi-”

“Good,” she said shortly, “so the next words out of your mouth better be the mission parameters.” 

Ron tilted his head as he gave her a tired look. “Fine, FINE!” he snapped as he slapped his arms hopelessly against his sides. With a heavy sigh he reached for a specific map. “Fine - you taking Malfoy?” he asked, glancing up at her.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest. “Yes.” 

“You su-”

“I promise I will turn you into a toad if you finish that sentence,” Hermione said in a matter-of-fact tone. 

Ron held up his hands in defeat, the parchment clutched between his fingers, crinkled with the movement.

“Fine,” he grouched. “Heller took a scouting party back to the original Yeti and Centaur encampments. Overwatch hadn’t seen movement there since the attacks began so we figured they were emptied. She took Selwyn and his team to see if we could glean any information about how the fuck all this went so wrong, so quickly.” His thumb and forefinger rubbed his tired eyes. “We haven’t heard from them since, and that was three hours ago.”

Hermione shifted her weight in an attempt to unknot the unease that settled in her stomach. 

“We’ve sent Patronus’ and even a couple owls,” Ron continued. “The owls returned with their notes unopened and there hasn’t been any responding Patronus’.” He laid the parchment out and pointed to two deep red circles in the valley over the Foyers. “Addison here can apparate you to the warding line we set up,” he said, gesturing to a small roguish man who wore the familiar get-up of the DMCRC. Hermione nodded to him in greeting as he flashed her a winning smile. 

_How the tables have turned_ , she thought as she looked back to the map to take in the details. She nodded to show she was still listening, as she tried not to think too closely about the fact that she would be the one finding Heller, instead of their usual arrangement. A fact that filled her with no measure of confidence. 

“We’ll set off now,” she said seriously, stepping away from the table. 

Ron looked at her with pleading eyes. “‘Mione are you-” 

“Uh, Weasley?” The tent flap opened, allowing in a gust of cold night air. 

Hermione turned to see Malfoy standing awkwardly at the entrance, his grey eyes glassier than usual. 

Ron straightened like a dog alerted. “What the fuck do you want?”

“As much as it pains me to say this,” Malfoy stated, his tone clipped, “Daphne needs you. She’s by the fire out front.”

Ron immediately rounded the table and disappeared through the flap without uttering another word. Hermione took Malfoy’s unfamiliar awkwardness in. 

“How did it go?” she asked quietly. The way that Daphne had been so bright and happy to see him had genuinely pained her to see. 

“How do you think it went,” Malfoy replied as he ran a hand through his hair. “How did it go with loverboy in here?” 

She looked at him incredulously. 

“He literally just ran out there for Greengr-” she cut herself off with a frustrated huff as she saw the hint of a smirk. “Right, I have a mission to do.” She looked at Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. “I’m assuming…”

His lips spread into a dangerous smile as his mercury eyes flashed.

“Lead the way Spook.” 

**_20:30pm 13th September 1999 - Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands_ **

The touch of death is not just felt by humans. If Death swings his scythe wide enough, the wounds cut down deep in the earth, leaving scars upon the ground. It’s why poppies are the flowers of death: for they were the first things to regrow from the bloodied soil of No-Man’s Land, following the First Muggle World War. 

But a fresh battleground is still an open wound. 

A big black paw padded the sodden earth. The huge dog-like creature lifted its pointed head, its nose twitching as it scented the cold night air. Carefully, its long legs stepped forward, silently parting the thin layer of mist that settled over the ground. Even in the chill Scottish air where the Autumnal change was beginning to turn the leaves, fine tendrils of steam rose from the earth, adding to the dewy fog layer that gathered. It was as if the ground was breathing, the earth gasping as it tried to free itself from the blood that had drowned its soil over the past few days. 

The black creature prowled over the muddy field, pausing here and there to watch the dark horizon. It moved like a shadow, as quiet as a forgotten breath. Its red eyes glowed in the dying firelight as it searched for signs of movement. Through the rolling, ghostly fog, it spotted cumbersome shapes, mangled and contorted beyond recognition. Some were hacked and sliced, their limbs dispersed over measures of ground; others were twisted, the bones of their frames, snapped beyond repair. 

It came to a stop by the body of a fallen Centaur; the flesh of its wide chest was ripped and torn asunder. The black creature sniffed delicately at the exposed wounds. It seemed to pause in thought as it mulled over the palette of aromas, only picking up the faint beginning sweetness of death. It’s dog-like head tilted in question, puffing out steaming clouds of panted breath as it watched the slow, shallow rise and fall of the Centaur’s chest. 

Red eyes looked deep into cold blue ones and saw the last wisps of fear circling in the Centaur’s stare. Slowly, the black creature blinked and pressed its cold muzzle to the Centaur’s forehead in reverence. After a moment, it pulled back, only briefly meeting the Centaur’s dimming gaze. A string of drool glinted in the firelight of the pyres as the creature opened its wide mouth, revealing it’s pointed jaw to be full with large, sharp teeth. 

With one last breath, it buried its muzzle into the flesh. The creature’s jaw clamped down around a rib between its teeth and -

**Crack**

Draco stumbled as he landed next to Granger atop a hill. The breath rushed from his lungs as Granger’s arm snapped out to wrap tightly around his waist before he completely lost his balance. His heart pounded wildly as he stood there, trying with every effort to compose himself. His shoulder burned with an old ache through the layers of pain-relief potion in his system. 

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Granger lean around to peer curiously up at him, her arm still secure on his waist. 

“Is there a particular reason you’re hanging off me?” he ground out as he looked down his nose into the large golden eyes that blinked at him. His blood sang as his Veela stretched, shedding twinkling shards of ice as it preened to have her body so close. 

Granger rolled her eyes and disappeared behind him. “Apologies, next time, I’ll let you fall,” she said. 

Draco felt his cheeks pull as they threatened to break into a grin. “Oh, so your hero-complex is actually an act then?” He turned slowly, careful not to jostle his shoulder too much and met her disparaging gaze. “I’ve often thought that it’s not possible for one to be as naturally sanctimonious as you are,” he added conversationally. 

Granger released a bitter, disbelieving bark of laughter as she pushed back the loose tendrils of hair that had fallen in her eyes. “Hypocrisy suits you, as always Malfoy.” 

Draco’s lips twisted into a flippant smirk. “Everything suits me, Granger,” he said with a wink. 

“So…” 

Draco started at the interruption; both he and Granger whirled to look at the short man who had apparated them here. _Adelaide? Adam? Anderson?_ “Are you guys good? Or…” The Ministry Official said as he looked expectantly between the two of them.

“We’re good. Thank you Addison,” Granger said, her tone cordial and polite. 

‘Addison’ nodded shortly before gesturing towards the beginnings of the rocky decline that Draco could barely make out in the darkness. 

“You’ll want to be heading that way,” he said with a grunt. “Remember, ‘bannefinner’ and a clockwise twist.” He shifted his weight and glanced uneasily over his shoulder down the hilltop on the ground below. From where Draco stood, it seemed as if the edge of the hill was the edge of the world; he could see a few rocks here and there close to them before the world fell away into shadows. The only way he could quieten his Fear was to actively reassure himself of the flames he could see in the distance - which all things considered, wasn’t a great source of comfort. 

“Are you alright for me to leave, Unspeakable Granger?” Addison said. Draco tore his eyes from the flames to see the man eyeing him uneasily. 

Draco raised a challenging brow.

“Yes, thank you, that’ll be all,” Granger replied dismissively as she took out her wand. 

Draco smirked smugly at Addison. “Unless you’d like to come with us?” he asked pleasantly.

Addison’s expression darkened; his eye flicked back to the black abyss behind him before returning to meet Draco’s. “I have things to do.” 

Draco nodded serenely. “Of course, you should probably go do that, right?” 

Addison pursed his lips in a tight smile as he twisted his wand. With a small **crack,** he was gone. 

“Why do you insist on being a prat?” Granger said absently from where she looked down the rocky path. 

“Are you honestly telling me you’d have me any other way?” Draco replied automatically as he came to stand next to her. He scanned the dim shapes of the path ahead and a crease formed between his brows. “It’ll be a miracle if we don’t break our necks getting down there,” he groused. 

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Granger said. “Obviously ‘Lumos’ will help, but it’ll paint us a target on us if there’s anything waiting for us down there.” 

Draco hummed his agreement. “ Try the spell,” he offered, “the bannefinner thing that twit face said.” 

Granger threw him a shrewd look as she turned her wand clockwise, the incantation falling from her lips in an easy sigh. A gentle blue glow appeared on the floor and wound ahead like a twisting ethereal snake. Though it didn’t offer enough light to properly see the area around them, it lit the floor enough to show where to put their feet. 

“What are the chances that you can see that from down there?” Draco grumbled as he eyed the black vista sceptically. 

“Let’s assume high and so we should definitely get a move on,” Granger replied as she set off. 

Draco gave her a disbelieving look as she passed him and stepped on to the path. “Explain that logic Granger,” he huffed as he set off after her, “we can’t use Lumos because a singular point in a large area _might_ give away our position, but we’ll definitely follow a glowing path that will absolutely give away our position and is actually the more dangerous option of the two.” He picked his way around a particularly pebbly part of the path; the slippery surfaces of the smooth stones were slick with sillage. “But it’s okay _because we’ll just do it quickly,_ ” he finished mockingly.

“Your dramatics are going to give us away if you carry on,” Granger snapped. 

Draco pulled a face into the dark at the back of her head. “Tell me, do you get off on being in mortal danger?” 

“Do you get off on being a wanker?” Granger replied snidely as she hopped lithely from one rock to another.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Don’t kink shame,” Draco drawled his brows raising in quiet admiration as he watched her move with ease. He followed, sticking to the trickier but more grounded route. 

Granger paused atop a rock and looked out over the darkness of what Draco assumed was No-Man’s Land. 

“What do you reckon is down there?” he asked as he came to a stop behind her. They had managed to come a significant way down the meandering path that was beginning to flatten out its incline. Ahead of them was a fathomless expanse of black, interrupted here and there with the light of dying flames. 

“I have no idea,” she said softly. She glanced at him over her shoulder, their eyes meeting in the dark. “Stay close.” 

Draco ran a hand through his hair as he looked away from her, breaking up the filth that still coated it. “Like I’d let you out of my sight right now.” 

The air between them was filled with whispers of the night wind that danced along the rocking path. 

“We should keep moving,” Granger said quietly before she hopped down from the rock onto the path in front of him. 

Draco clenched his teeth and pocketed his hands as he followed. 

_Why the fuck did you just say that out loud._

Granger was silent ahead of him.

_Seriously, why? You’re already on thin ice here._

They rounded a bend and the ground beneath their feet levelled off. 

_She doesn’t want you close. Stop trying to get close._

The visibility was better on the new stretch of the path. Around them, small pyre’s burned low, casting a dull orange hue that refracted off the mist that covered the sodden ground, making it look like a sea of burnt liquid gold. Draco could make out still, dark mounds that breached the tranquil surface of the fog, each one a different size and shape. They walked in tense silence, the only sound to be heard was the gentle crackle of the flames. 

The blue path wound ever further, and from the gloom, a darkened structure appeared ahead that stood like a silent watcher over the barren land. It wasn’t until they had joined a trodden walkway, that Draco saw the horror that surrounded them. The walkway was framed on all sides with a forest of pillars spiked into the ground, standing around ten feet tall. He had no way of telling how large the strange forest stretched; he could just about make out twenty-deep on either side before the rest were swallowed by darkness. Smaller pyres glowed at sporadic points in amongst the solemn trunks. 

As they continued, Draco absently noted a larger trunk on his left. He could see in the soft umber that the trunk of the pillar was marked with etchings; some seeming to form an alien language, others random like the beat of claws against the wood. He looked closer, focusing on the etchings as they went high up the trunk, until he flinched with shock at the lifeless head that watched him from atop the spike. He turned, his lips parting in growing horror as he recognised the bulbous outlines atop each spike in his field of light.

“Why?” 

Draco blanched at Granger as she whirled suddenly to face him. Her silhouette stood stark against the umber backdrop; all he could see was the reflection of flames in her eyes, the outline of her hair that became wilder by the second.

“Why what?” he asked cautiously.

She turned to face him, her frustration evident. “Why are you here, following me willingly - out _here_?” She said forcefully, her voice rising as her arms gestured widely to the hellscape they found themselves in. 

Fear suddenly tightened her clutches around his heart, and pulled, urging him to retreat from the conversation. 

“It was your choice Granger, not mine,” he said coolly. 

She shook her head adamantly, her expression fierce. “No, you said — ” she took a step towards him and raised an accusing finger “ — _you said_ that my choice was to either stay there or come here, but that if I came here, you would come too, implying that you didn’t have a choice.” She tilted her head as her gaze narrowed. “You had a choice Malfoy, you didn’t have to come. And let’s be honest here, you’re not particularly known for your altruism.” 

Fear squeezed hard and whispered soft words of encouragement for his retreat. 

His feet remained rooted in the sodden soil.

“Would you rather be here by yourself?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm despite his racing heart. 

_She’d rather be here alone than be anywhere with you..._

Hermione straightened, casting a quick glance around her as if remembering where they were. “No,” she bit out.

“Well then,” The words were breathier than Draco intended as the air rushed from his lungs in relief. In a burst of defiance against the Fear that clawed at his gut, urging his retreat, he stalked forward, closing the distance between them. “Stop fucking complaining,” he growled as he passed by her, his steps kicking up the mud, disturbing the sombre blue light of the path.

“Malfoy!” she called as she jogged to catch up. “I can see what you’re doing.”

“Oh?” He glanced down his nose at her before flicking his eyes to the horizon. _What the fuck does she think I’m doing when I don’t even know._ “What makes you think I care?”

Granger made a frustrated noise beside him. 

Fear curled her long fingers around his throat, choking him. 

“It’s the reason why you’re here,” Granger snapped. 

Draco’s fists curled at his side as his claws sprang forth. He focused on the opening in the wall ahead of them. He kept his gaze firmly on the horizon as panic flooded his already exhausted body.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t, nothing else makes logical sense,” Granger continued. “But you caring doesn’t make any sense either. I just don’t understand why; you never have, so wh-” 

“Why would I care for you?!” Draco hissed, whirling around on her. He couldn’t tell if he had lost his temper with her incessant need to labour a point he obviously didn’t want to discuss, or whether Fear was pushing the issue. 

She reared back from him, the whites of her eyes evident in the firelight. “That’s what I’m asking you,” she snapped as she rallied. “Good to see we’re on the same page here.” 

A growl rumbled low in Draco’s chest, as he spun back on his heel and stalked toward what he could now see was an open gate.

“Why won’t you answer the question?” Granger pushed, catching up with him once again. 

“Why won’t you let it drop?” he ground out. 

“Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“Nothing about this week makes sense Granger,” he snapped, spinning to face her once more. He felt a tide build in his chest and the still air shifted into a gentle breeze, tugging playfully at Granger’s hair, shepherding the fog and flames across No-Man’s Land. 

“Exactly,” she replied shortly, “so make _this_ make sense.” She huffed in frustration as she swiped at the hair that had fallen in her eyes. “While every instance that has happened this week is nonsensical holistically, there will be a specific cause for each individual occurrence. I can’t answer them yet, but _this -_ this I can!” Her eyes flashed as she stared him down. “So tell me Malfoy, why do you care?”

Fear screamed in his chest as the words stuck in his throat. He bit down hard on his lip, feeling a burst of blood spill into his mouth. He didn’t want to - Merlin knew he’d rather cut out his own tongue. But, by the way her eyes searched his beseechingly, he knew he couldn’t refuse - she was as lost as he was in this. If not more so.

He stepped into her space and grasped her jaw tight, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

“I lost one of my best friends today because she was determined to save the world by herself,” he said darkly. They were so close, he could feel her breath against his lips as he searched her wide eyes. “My other friend is missing because people kept information from me and I didn’t know all the players on the table.” He pulled her closer, his voice dripped like the darkness that crept in from the shadows around them. “I have let you down more times than anyone else, but I am _not_ going to lose you too.” Her hand curled around his wrist. “I gave you the choice to come here because you always will have a choice, but _I don’t._ It wasn’t a choice for me.” 

Granger’s thumb pressed against the skin of his wrist as her tongue swiped her lips. “But why?” she breathed. 

“Because...” His eyes dropped to her lips, the urge to close the distance became overwhelming. Fear railed against him, clawing at his chest. “Because as much as you do my fucking head in Granger, you’re not allowed to die on me too. End of discussion.” He released her forcefully, putting distance between them. 

She blinked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

Draco looked away into the distance, unable to meet her gaze as his heart pounded furiously in his chest. 

It took a moment for him to realise the shifting shadows were not the flicker of firelight on the fog. 

Without saying a word, he reached for Granger’s hand and pulled her behind him. 

“What th-”

“ _Shush,_ ” he hissed as he spun. “Inside now _\- move!_ ” Granger glanced up at him briefly, and whatever she saw on his face must have been enough to quell her incessant questions. She set off in a sprint toward the open gate, with Draco on her heels, casting an eye over his shoulder to the distance. 

They slipped through a crudely crafted entrance that towered above them and paused just on the inside, backs against the wooden walls. 

“What did you see?” Granger whispered as she caught her breath.

“Movement, didn’t see what though,” Draco murmured. He crouched low and stepped away from the wall, peering into the darkness. 

All was silent and still: the embers from the flames still smouldered, the mist still curled around the spikes. Doubt crept into his thoughts, and he had just begun to think that perhaps it had been a trick of the eye when something moved just on the boundaries of where the light left the forest of pillars. 

“There’s something out there,” Draco whispered as he watched the large shape prowl in the shadows. He felt the air stir behind him and was about to move when Granger’s hands came to rest on his shoulders as she leaned over him. 

“Where?” 

“Over there,” He pointed to where the thing crept ever closer to the blue path. Granger’s fingers tightened their grip. 

“Finite,” she whispered and the blue path was snuffed out. 

The quiet was fraught between them as they watched the shifting shadows cross over the walkway and disappear in the other side of the pillar forest. 

“When did you learn how to do wandless magic?” Draco asked, his attention preoccupied as he watched the darkness closely. 

“When I went back to Hogwarts after the war,” she murmured in response. 

Draco grunted his reply as his gut twisted at the reminder. “How could you bear returning there?” 

Granger was quiet a moment before she spoke: “Because it was home.” 

Draco’s chest panged with pain to hear the sadness in her voice. With a final glance to the now still distance, he stood carefully. Granger’s hands slipped from his shoulders as he turned to face her. 

“For what it’s worth Spook, I’m sorry.” He swallowed around the chokehold that Fear had on his throat. In the dim light of their hiding place, he could see the slight purse of her lips and the way that her eyes searched his, as he held his breath - hopelessly waiting. He made to move around her to head further into the structure, when she stopped him, her small hand curling around his left forearm. 

“For what it’s worth,” she parroted his words back at him, “I forgave you a long time ago.”

The remaining ice in his chest shattered and his Veela rushed to the forefront, free from the dark corner it had hidden in. Draco could feel the creeping doubt of Fear urgently muttering, pressing dark and twisted thoughts into his mind. Slowly, he released a tremulous breath as he kept his gaze on the bridge ahead of them. 

“Well now, you definitely shouldn’t have done that,” he said softly. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye to meet her open gaze. It felt like a current passed through them, connecting one another, pulling him to her. His Veela keened within him as his ravenous hunger returned full force. 

“We should uh,” he began, tearing his eyes from Granger’s to gesture vaguely in the direction of the bridge. 

“Sure,” she said quietly before turning to lead the way.

  
  


Draco clenched and loosened his clawed fists as he stepped out onto the wooden bridge. The smell of thick, cloying tar overwhelmed his senses as an ominous bubbling came from the blackness below. 

“What the fuck is this place?” he asked as they ducked under another gate, this one was broken in half, rather than left open. Torches flared to life, one by one, down the stretch of a long stone corridor. 

“The Yeti base camp,” Granger replied as she stared forward, her steps silent with the soft leather of her boots.

“Great,” Draco grumbled, “and what are we going to do if we come across one?” 

Granger shrugged. “Depends.”

“On?”

“On whether they try to kill us or not,” she replied as she glanced over her shoulder at him. 

“Again with using mortal danger as a benchmark,” Draco grouched as she rolled her eyes and looked forward. 

“It’s a good benchmark,” she quipped. 

Draco’s brow rose in surprise as the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Only if you insist on offering yourself up.” 

She shook her head slightly as they came to stop at the end of the corridor. The area before them was a muddy courtyard; a fire pit in the centre burned low, it’s embers nearly dead. 

“Well then what would you suggest we do?” Granger murmured distractedly as she pulled her wand from her holster and cautiously stepped out into the courtyard.

Draco pocketed his hands and ambled along behind her; his gaze alert on the dark spaces between the surrounding tents. 

“Try to work on your hero complex, and ask yourself why you feel the need to throw yourself in front of everything that wants to kill you?” he said.

Granger made a noise of interest as she peaked at him from over her shoulder again, before quickly turning back. She tutted as she turned down a darkened path between tents. “I meant, what do you expect us to do right now?” 

“Call it a day and go home with a bottle of Ogden’s,” he grumbled sourly while he brushed some dry mud from his borrowed cloak. “Do you know where you’re going by the way?” 

She straightened with a huff and flicked a disparaging look at him. “Not yet.”

“Then how are we supposed to be finding these people amongst all of this?” he said as he took in their surroundings. 

“Keep your voice down,” Granger hushed as she reached into her cloak. Draco was about to retort when she pulled a box that dangled from a silver chain that glinted in the firelight. It was too dark to make out any details other than its blocky, dark shape. Granger twirled her wand over her fingers and balanced it on her last knuckle as she pried it open. Draco craned his head curiously, to get a better look at the object, just as Granger lifted it close to her face and whispered: “Where is Enola Heller?” 

Draco’s brows rose in surprise as he watched her skilfully flip her wand back; it suddenly flared to life with a soft witchlight, illuminating the box in her hand. As he got closer, he saw the spinning hand slow to indicate ‘South-East’ on the compass’ face. 

“Now where did you find that little trinket?” Draco asked as Granger turned to continue down the path they were heading.

“Work,” she replied shortly as she checked the compass again before making a left down a smaller avenue. 

Slowly, the patter of rain tapped on the tarp of the tents surrounding them as huge drops of water fell from the sky. The tents were dark, barren and silent as they passed; some had their flaps thrown wide open, creating the illusion of a dark space bigger than what it seemed. The low witchlight from Granger’s wand slanted across the wet earth and bounced off the random reflected surfaces. Every time an unexpected flash of white came from a location other than her wand, Draco’s heart skipped and Fear pulled tighter as if trying to force him to listen to her. 

Granger stopped suddenly, and backtracked a few steps, her eyes focused on the compass. Draco side-stepped to avoid walking into her and watched curiously as she performed some strange manoeuvre to try and discern the direction of the compass. 

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. Draco stepped closer and wordlessly looked down at the compass: the arrow couldn’t decide which direction to point. For a second it would land on ‘North’ only to swing to ‘South’, then ‘North-West’, ‘North-East’, ‘South’ and so on. 

“She’s here?” Draco breathed, his words barely discernible. Granger nodded and looked around at the surrounding tents. All had their flaps closed. Granger stepped toward the nearest one to their left as she pocketed the compass. Draco strode ahead, throwing her a frown. She looked at him, stricken with confusion. He pointed to himself, then held up a single clawed finger. 

_Not a chance are you going first._

Granger rolled her eyes and waved her wand, pointing out his obvious lack of weaponry. 

Draco brought his hand up and wiggled his fingers before pointing an admonishing finger at her. 

She sighed delicately and quirked her brow. 

He smirked and reached for the tent flap. 

With one final glance back, he huffed a small breath before ripping it back. Every muscle was tense and alert, prepared to strike. He saw Granger’s wand pointed true, poised and waiting. 

Nothing moved. 

They shared a brief glance with one another before Granger stepped around him and headed into the tent. The interior smelled like mildew, damp fur and herbs. Draco spotted the wracks of fur skins that lined the walls, creating a cocoon of warmth. From the roof, random sprigs of herbs: thyme, rosemary, and sage, among some others that bounced off his head as he walked further into the tent. 

“Nothing,” Granger whispered as he turned in the centre of the space next to a deep cauldron. 

“Next one?” Draco asked as he angled his head toward the entrance. With a nod, she followed him out. 

  
  


The rain started to fall heavier as they moved to the next tent. They repeated the process five more times, each time becoming more agitated when the only thing that attacked them was the variety of random produce these creatures sought to hang from their ceilings. 

They were getting into position, preparing to open the next tent, when a muffled sound came from inside. 

Draco froze, his fingers hovering around the edge of the flap. He looked to Granger over his shoulder; her expression was set in a deep-set frown, her lips pursed tight. She met his gaze with a sharp nod as she readied herself, her wand bouncing in her palm, her feet planted in the earth - focused. Draco swiped a hand over his wet face, pushing his hair back, before stretching his neck, loosening his stiff, aching shoulder. With a small countdown, he ripped back the flap and surged forward. He reached deep and called the magic within him to the tips of his fingers - 

And stopped. 

Granger pulled up behind him. 

It was empty - no looming Yeti or monster waited for them on the inside. Granger clicked, grabbing his attention and indicated for him to take the right circle of the tent.

Carefully, he stepped away, placing his booted feet lightly amongst the fur and baskets that cluttered every inch of the floor. The layout of the space was like a make-shift workshop filled with hastily cobbled benches, shelves and palettes. It was a humble collection of items: the shelves lined with jars of oddities, the tables covered in rudimentary pestles and mortars with half crushed mixes inside. Draco concluded that whatever had happened, the owners of the tent had left in a hurry. 

He took another step forward and stumbled as his foot collided with a solid pile of furs. Draco leapt back alert, as the bundle grunted. Granger quickly crossed the space and with a flick of her wand, snatched the furs away to reveal a wide-eyed blonde with a bloodied head, who looked frantically between them. Granger knelt by her side and pulled the dirty, torn gag that bit into the corners of her mouth before she started to unpick the tight rope bonds around her wrists and ankles. 

“Heller - _Merlin!_ ” Granger hissed as she took in her bloodied, chafed wrists. “Are you okay?” she whispered, as she pointed her wand at a particularly stubborn knot. 

Heller clasped Granger’s hands. “Tell me you killed her,” she pleaded urgently. Granger’s eyes flicked up to him before looking back to the woman. 

“Who?”

Heller gave a stuttered, panicked inhale as her eyes widened. “The woman,” she pressed. 

Granger frowned.

Heller swallowed heavily, her eyes phasing slightly out of focus as she blinked. “The woman with white hair - tell me you killed her before you came here.” 

Granger’s lips parted as if she made to speak, but no words came. Instead, she turned to Draco who shrugged. 

“Did we know we were meant to be doing that?” he asked conversationally.

Granger frowned slightly as she turned back to Heller. “No, we didn’t. Wh-”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Heller hissed as she scrambled, her panic palpable. 

“Whoa whoa,” Granger soothed, still trying to undo the ropes. “Why, who is she?”

“I don’t know who she is,” Heller whispered, her breathing erratic. “I’ve never seen anything like her. She killed four of the others. Selwyn was unconscious, he should be over there.” She tilted her chin towards the back of the tent.

Draco stepped forward, over the ragged piles of fur, toeing each one as he went until one didn’t give. He whipped them off to reveal an unconscious dark haired man, with dry blood on his temples and cheeks. Draco placed the back of his hand above the man’s mouth and waited. It was a moment before he felt the gentle breeze on his skin. He quickly made work of the bonds around the man’s wrists; his claws slicing through the hessian with ease.

“I don’t know who she was, Hermione,” Heller gasped as Draco gathered the unconscious man in his arms with a grunt; his shoulder screamed at the weight as he carried him across the tent. 

“He’s alive,” he quietly assured Granger who looked to him as he passed. 

“She was so strong, we - we never stood a chance,” Heller continued. 

Granger pulled the last of the rope from the blonde’s wrists. “Why did you ask if we had killed her?” she asked calmly. 

Heller looked between them, her tongue flicking out to wet her cracked lips. “She said she was going to put a ward on the tent to know when someone came looking,” she said, her eyes wide with fear. “She said that she’d be waiting to collect more of us.” 

Draco frowned and Fear furiously raged within him. “Why? What’s her motive?” he asked as he set down the man and stretched out his shoulder. “And also, who is she?”

“I saw her when the creatures first attacked,” Granger said as she stood and offered Heller a hand.

“I don’t know who she is, she didn’t say,” Heller said shakily as she stood. “I asked why she didn’t just kill us; she said it was because picking a herd apart one by one is fun, but it’s better when you leave them with hope.” She looked away, her eyes urgently searching the tent. “My wand,” she added with a tip of her chin toward the cauldron in the centre. Granger stood and crossed over to the huge cauldron and cast a quick look into the basin. She reached in and withdrew two wands: one brown and twisted, the other black with a silver hilt. 

Granger looked to Draco who nodded once in understanding as she padded back to Heller. She held out the black one and pocketed the brown one in her holster. 

“Apparate them out of here,” Draco said.

Granger shook her head as she hoisted Hellar’s arm over her shoulders. “We can’t, why do you think we apparated to the top of the hill?” 

Draco tilted his head in frustration. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“An anti-apparition line was installed when the fighting started,” Heller supplied. “They didn’t want anyone to randomly pop in and end up in a bad way.” 

Draco groaned and picked up the unconscious man once again; his teeth clenched from the effort. 

“Come on then,” he called as he exited the tent into the cold night air. 

*

The only sounds that filled the air were their hurried footsteps, sloshing in the thick mud as they walked. The rain fell heavier, in sheets of ice down their backs as their ragged breaths plumed steam into the frigid air. Each one of them focused on moving with speed through the effort and pain; Granger supported Heller who hobbled on sore ankles and tender bones; Draco who bore the weight that pulled at his strained side. They meandered quickly through the tents, following the path, retracing their steps. They slipped down the echoey stone corridor, their breaths harsh as they moved at pace. One by one they ducked out onto the bridge, slipping through the shadows, crossing it to the other side. They came to a stop at the entrance and looked out onto the dark field. 

“What are the chances that whatever is out there is gone?” Draco murmured as his eyes keenly roamed the darkness. 

“Pass,” Granger replied absently as she shifted her grip on Heller. 

“What are the chances that this crazy lady is on her way?” Draco said. 

“I’d say high,” Heller whispered. 

Draco swallowed and nodded his head shortly as Fear clawed at his skin. “Oh look at that, the benchmark of mortal peril.”

“Shut up,” Granger quipped with amusement in her voice. She flicked her wand, poised and ready before her. “We move fast and low. Don’t stop. Keep going, got it?” 

“Sure,” Draco answered breezily. 

Granger’s wand turned in a clockwise twist as she uttered ‘bannerfinner’. The tranquil blue path spread before them, meandering its way into the darkness. With a final look at one another, they moved. 

Draco slowed his steps to keep pace with the women behind him as he scanned the darkness ahead. The ground was eerily silent save for the humdrum of rain beating the ground. The pyres that burnt so merrily on the way in, didn’t seem to be quelled by the rain that pounded on their flames. The group exited the boundary of the spiked forest and into the darkness proper. 

The shadows pressed on all sides, clawing at their feet as the fog clung to their steps. They rounded the bend of the path that circled around a particularly large pyre where the ‘bannefinner’ spell veered to the left to circle around it, before making its incline up the rocky path. The ground was now slick beneath their feet, their boots sinking far into the mud with each laboured step. 

Draco narrowed his eyes against the stark brightness of the flames as they grew nearer. Granger and Heller were behind him, slipping in a particularly muddy part of the track. 

Fear clawed at his chest, spiking adrenaline into his heart. He came to a stop and looked away from the flames, scanning the shadows. 

The darkness was still through the pounding rain.

Granger gave him a querying look as she and Heller pulled up alongside him. 

“What’s wr-”

An explosion of ember and ash erupted into the air, sprinkling down on them. Draco lunged forward, shoulders hunched around his ears as Granger spun away, covering her face; Heller stumbled as she did the same.

“What the fuck?” Draco spat, as he looked at the relatively calm pyre once more. 

“Come on,” Heller said, as she began to move again. “I don’t particularly want to stand here and wait for it to do that again.” 

Granger frowned at the pyre before meeting Draco’s gaze. 

Fear screamed in his head. 

Flames burst from the pyre, spraying hot embers into the air. Draco hunched away once more logs flew past them as if they were thrown from the far side of the pyre. 

Fear clawed at his every nerve and sinew. 

He looked over to Granger, who was reaching for Heller who had slipped in the mud. 

Another bellow of hot ash plumed. 

“Fuck this,” Draco snapped. He turned to cross the distance between him and Granger just as a spark of red, volleyed over the pyre. 

Time slowed as he watched the red light hone in on Granger. Fear curled her fingers around his throat, stopping his voice, rooting him in horror as the red light hit its target. The raw scream that erupted from Granger’s throat as she hit the ground, pierced through the hold Fear had on him. He dropped the man in his arms, and set off in a sprint, jumping over the burning logs to get to her. Heller had pulled her wand, her eyes wide as she cast ‘protego’.

“She’s here,” Heller said grimly as Draco slid in the mud, hunching over Granger’s shaking form. He hurriedly pushed back the drenched hair from her face with filthy fingers as panic overwhelmed his senses. He felt her shudder as another tremor ran through her. 

“Hold on Granger,” he urged as her eyes fluttered.

“We need to move,” Heller hissed. 

Draco growled low in his throat. “I’m open to suggestions here!” 

“Well, she went down quicker than I thought.”

Draco looked up, searching for the owner of the voice. A tall woman, with long white hair that was heavy with wet, lazily strolled out from behind the pyre. She cocked her head in a bird-like manner as she rocked onto the balls of her feet, a manic look about her face. “Pretty little thing she is, moves like fire, doesn’t she.” She took a step forward; though she was clad in a mix of silk and silver armour, her bare feet curled in the mud like a dancer’s with every delicate step. Even in the burnt glow of the pyre, her skin was deathly pale, making the shadows of her gaunt cheeks appear starker, giving her a more haunted look.

Granger stirred in his arms.

“Dra-” she began just as Heller flicked her wrist. 

“Leibaidh Nathraichean!” she snapped. The white-haired woman hopped with ease as lathes of mud rose angrily from the soil and earth, circling and entwining around one another as they reached hungrily for the woman. She laughed joyfully and on one-pointed toe pirouetted away. In a laissez-faire gesture, she conjured a long golden coil that poured from her palm like spun-silk as she continued to spin. With every turn, she built speed, the mania in her face brightening as she threatened to spin out of control. The coil circled her, surrounding her, trailing like a murderous ribbon of sunlight that sliced easily through the writhing earthly vines. 

Granger reached with clumsy hands for her wand; her eyes still unfocused, her breath stuttering on her lips. Draco leant over and picked the wand up from the mud where it had fallen as Heller swore and sent off a barrage of curses toward the woman whose laughter danced through the rain.

“Can you move?” Draco asked as he placed the wand in Granger’s hand. She blinked up at him, the haze of the curse clearing her system. She nodded her head with a jerk, her skin pale with shock.

“We need to go,” he said hurriedly and was about to lean back to make room for her to stand when suddenly she stopped when several things happened at once.

The deafening crack of thunder shattered through the air.

Granger’s mouth parted in shock as shining gold reflected in her eyes.

Draco felt a blazing heat zip close to his face, singeing the fine hairs on his cheek. 

His left ear rang with a high pitched squeak from the explosion of sound.

A harrowing scream came from behind him, piercing through the tinnitus. 

Draco turned toward the sound sharply to see Heller sprawled on her back. He glanced back at Granger who met his gaze, before looking to the white haired woman. She tipped her head back with a peal of tainted laughter; the disembodied coolness of it set his teeth on edge as if it were striking the Uncanny Valley. Now that she stood still, Draco was able to see that though she was striking in her features, she only hinted at being human; everything about her screamed ‘other’, ‘alien’. Her mannerisms were too smooth, too practised; her grey skin too perfect, her smile too wide. 

Fear gnawed at Draco’s bones and clawed down his spine. He looked into the dark, manic eyes of the strange woman and every nerve burned to run as far and as fast as possible, to hide in the farthest reaches of this earth as he looked into the fathomless eyes of the strange woman. 

Granger took one shuddering breath as she too looked to the white-haired woman before uttering the quiet order: “Go.”

They burst into action. Draco lurched to his feet and spun toward Heller, his heavy steps spraying mud as Granger’s wand ignited a spray of blue sparks across the field. Draco dropped heavily to Heller’s side. She looked to him, her eyes pleading, her face contorted in pain. His hand’s fluttered over the tear in her torso, from hip to shoulder. The smell of seared flesh was overwhelming. 

“Wand - where’s your wand?” he said, as he scanned the ground surrounding her. His pulse hammered in his ears, his breath fast on his lips. A hint of silver in the firelight caught his eye a couple of feet from them. 

Thunder exploded the night. 

Draco flinched at the overwhelming noise as his fingers curled around the cold hilt of the wand. He snapped his head up at the sound of breaking glass and his heart plummeted to his stomach. Granger brought her wand around, her expression set in fierce determination. From the ground, hundreds of glass-like shards rose in a menacing cloud around her. The white-haired woman twitched her head in her inhuman way that reminded Draco of a curious bird as she watched Granger attentively. He saw the mania slowly drain from her face. It was as if she was reassessing whatever notions of Granger she had already made in her head. With the arch of her arm, the woman brought the golden coil through the air, and the resonating thunderclap disintegrated the deadly cloud, leaving it to fall like dust on the wind. 

“I saw you, down on the riverbed.” Draco heard Granger say calmly over the sounds of his panicked breath. 

“As I saw you.” The woman’s voice was hollow and mechanical as if she was only playing at niceties. She tipped her head in acknowledgement, a flirtatious smile on her lips. “I had hoped I would catch you - you fight so valiantly, so bravely. I thought then, that you would be a worthy prize catch.” Her black eyes flashed malevolently as she prowled a step closer. 

Draco didn’t wait to see what Granger did next as she began to cast her next attack. He quickly crossed back to Heller’s side. She had begun to shake, her fingers trembling from where they lay across her chest. He pulled the cloak from his shoulders and covered her as best he could without disturbing the raw wound. He shook out his wand, feeling his magic writhing with joy within him. 

Thunder boomed through the air.

Fear clawed at his skin.

“Ferven aeris,” Draco recited as he wiggled the wand back and forth. His magic sputtered. The wand sparked. He bit back a sigh and occluded as best he could, in an attempt to quieten his mind from his desperation and the rising chaos around him. 

He breathed a quiet breath. 

“Ferven aeris!” He repeated the action and like an uncorked champagne bottle, his magic rushed forth, forcing the wand to heel. Hot air blew in a concentrated funnel over Heller, drying her soaked clothes. He felt giddy as he moved aside the now dry cloak to access her wounded torso. 

“Ligatus cadere coeperat,” he intoned as he carefully ran the tip of the wand over the burnt edges of her skin. The magic left a different flavour on his tongue from the tide he had harnessed that morning. He repeated the incantation solemnly as Fear clawed urgently at his spine. 

Thunder boomed, distracting Draco from his binding. He looked over to see Granger slip on the mud, spraying a blackened ooze into the flames as she righted herself from avoiding the white-hot golden coil. She brought her wand up in an arc, pulling a wave of water from the ground and air before sharpening it into a thin viscose twine. 

Draco turned back to Heller, repeating the quiet intonation; the final stretches of the charred flesh meshing with eachother. It wasn’t pretty, but it would be enough to keep her alive until she saw a Healer.

A screech of fury and anguish tore the rain. 

Draco turned and saw the white-haired woman stumble back, a long, thin hand curled protectively around her cheek. Granger stumbled slightly, her chest heaving before she collected herself, wasting no time before relentlessly doubling down. The woman carefully pulled her fingers away and Draco saw the aggressive smear of blood across her deathly pallor. 

The last vestiges of mania drained from her demeanour, leaving a cold and calculating watchful gaze from the woman’s deadened eyes. 

“Very well,” she said with a voice like brushed velvet as she flicked her golden coil that slithered like an angry snake through the mud. 

Fear pulled at his nerves, twisting his guts in her iron grip, begging him to run. 

A cold hand circled around his wrist, drawing his attention. 

“Take it,” Heller said weakly. “I’ll get to Selwyn.” 

Draco nodded and secured his grip on the wand as he stood. “Try to get to the apparition line,” he said. 

Heller snorted inelegantly before she struggled to sit up; her face contorted in pain as her arm wrapped tightly around her torso as if keeping herself together. Draco took the cloak from her and wrapped it around her shoulders. 

“I’m fine,” she grunted as he helped her stand. His mouth twisted into a half-grin. 

“Sure thing,” he said as he turned away to face the ongoing battle. 

Fear pricked his skin with a thousand tiny knives. 

Granger snapped her wand forward, the burst of white light that erupted from her wand, illuminated her tense features for a second before it soared across the open space, only to be batted aside by the woman. She took a slow step forward, her arm raised, the coil slithering through the mud as the woman wound up for another strike. 

Fear screamed. 

“Relashio,” Draco hissed, pointing the wand to the woman’s wrist just as she brought her arm forward. The golden coil slipped from her fingers and landed aplomb a distance away. The woman bared her teeth in a snarl of shock and surprise just as Granger’s spell struck home, ensconcing the woman in a cage of electricity. 

Granger straightened shakily as Draco approached her side, her eyes focused on the woman. 

“Alright?” he asked, as the woman let out a fierce growl of fury. 

Granger nodded. “I’m good, Heller?” 

Draco glanced over his shoulder to where Heller’s silhouette was hunched over the crumpled form of the unconscious man. “She’s going to need to see the Healer asap, but she’s well enough to make it make it back, I think.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’ve never really focused on healing spells,” he admitted. 

“I suppose not,” Granger replied as Draco turned back to her. She met his eyes briefly before looking to the enraged woman, who struggled against her confines. “I should call for back-up.”

“What?!” Draco snapped incredulously. “No, we _need_ to go. You can gather back-up when we’re safe if you want. But right now, we need to _go!_ ” 

Granger sighed. “Yes but -”

“No!” he barked, his tone biting. He opted to change tactics: implore her reason, not her heart. “Strategically you’re at a huge disadvantage. I’m out of practice with a wand that is begrudgingly working for me, that bloke’s having a nap and Heller _needs_ to see a Healer.” He looked searchingly into her eyes, his heart thrumming in his throat as Fear whispered dark thoughts into his mind. 

_Leave her, just leave her!_

Granger pursed her lips in thought as she glanced back to the raging woman. 

“Who are you?” Granger asked, her chin set defiantly. Draco found the urge to roll his eyes at her predictably brazen display, almost painful. 

“Really?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re picking a fight now?”

“I’m not picking a fight,” she hissed back. “But I’m not leaving here without answers.”

The woman stilled her struggles and tilted her head in her jaunted, inhuman way.

“I am Deimos,” the woman said. “An associate of The Hunt, if you will,” she added 

“Fuck,” Draco breathed as he shifted to stand partially infront of Granger. He swallowed heavily as his fangs pricked his lip. He knew that Scotland was in a shitstate - one look around him as soon as he had arrived had confirmed that. But his father had taught him many things over the years, including - but not beholden to - the muggle pantheons. From Hestia in their home to Pan who watched over their gardens, his father had made sure he knew the rich tapestry of the belief systems that could be found across the worldover. Draco had always assumed them to be interesting stories - a thought exercise at best, nothing more. 

Until now. 

If she was who he thought her to be, then Draco had a suffocating feeling of drowning in an ocean, way out of his depth as he realised he was standing in the graveyard of a battlefield between his Granger and a woman toting the name of the god of Chaos. 

“You have your answers,” Draco said as he stepped closer to Granger as if to steer her away. “Let’s go.”

“Very well,” she said; she took her first few steps back with her eyes trained on Deimos, her reluctance obvious, before turning towards Heller. 

Draco was about to follow when the woman’s growl of frustration and fury morphed to a laughter that rolled in a maniacal cacophony, each desperate breath compounding on one another, each release of joy tinged with darkness. 

“The Wild Hunt has roamed this realm for many years with the sole purpose of whipping battles into frenzies to collect the dead.” 

Draco swore venomously as Granger stopped in her tracks. 

“The Wild Hunt?” she repeated, her eyes sparking with a familiar eagerness. 

“Granger,” Draco warned in a low voice as Fear burned his blood, “don’t give her what she wants.”

Deimos’ smile was insidiously victorious. “Nithral and Perchta are out that way,” she said with a jerk of her chin over the white cage of electricity that bound her. “Gwydion is down amongst the fray as per usual.” 

“Granger, we need to go,” Draco murmured from the side of his mouth as Fear plucked his nerves like strings of a tuneless piano.

“One second,” she muttered back before raising her voice. “Why?” she said as she took a step forward. “Why are you here of all places? Why did you bring these creatures here?” 

“I didn’t bring these creatures here darling girl,” Deimos said with laughter that dripped like tar. Her black eyes flashed malevolently in the fire. “I have my suspicions that they were an offering but between us.” She leant forward, straining against her bonds as if to share a secret, a sly grin upon her face. “I’ve never been a fan of those who try to curry favour.” 

Granger frowned. “Then why are you here?” 

“Does it fucking matter?” Draco hissed. “Will you just go already?!”

Granger ignored him in favour of watching the woman attentively. 

“Why are _you_ here?” The woman repeated back. “Why are you standing with him?” 

Fear begged, pleaded to leave. 

“I’m here because I must be,” Deimos twitched her head, “and you are here because you must be too.”

“Enough Granger, time t-”

“Which is why I can not let you leave.” Deimos spoke the words conversationally but the statement fell like a gavel, the intention clear over the pounding rain. 

Draco looked up to see Deimos stretch her long pale neck; the severe angles of her features were thrown into stark relief against the white light of the cage, making them appear more horrifically lifeless. Her eyes snapped open, meeting his and Fear railed in his mind, screaming, urging, begging, clawing at him to leave. 

“Imperious,” Deimos said, with a small smile of satisfaction. 

Immediately, Draco was shunted by a force unlike any he had ever felt before. All those times the Dark Lord had burrowed into his mind, tearing his walls to shreds, was nothing compared to the overwhelming presence that overtook his every sense, locking him down deep into a grave. 

Through detached eyes, he saw his own hand raise. The sounds of the rain and the crackle of the fire all felt as if they were dulled by cotton. Granger turned towards him, her eyes widening in shock as they fell on the wand.

The only sound that was clear, echoing cavernously within his head was Deimos, who laughed wickedly from her cage. “Kill the girl.”

Draco screamed in wild panic, his Veela keening as ice spread quickly over the walls of his grave. He watched helplessly as his hand jerkily performed the wand movements, casting a quickfire _stupify_ at Granger who backed away. He could see her lips moving but he couldn’t hear her words as she easily knocked aside his attacks. 

Ice crackled around him, entombing him. 

Fear slithered in the shadows. 

He watched as Granger jumped aside, landing heavily on the ground to avoid his next spell, and burrowed into the pyre behind her, sending a plume of embers towards the sky. 

“I said kill her, not dance,” Deimos sneered. He watched as his body advanced, sending spell and after spell at Granger, who rolled away, her lips moving urgently, her eyes locked with his. 

_You have to fight._

The spell landed in the space that Granger had just been. The earth exploded, mud and earth flicking high into the sky. Draco saw from the corner of his eye, Deimos step away from the caged position; Granger’s current preoccupation causing the prison to fail.

_You have to push through._

“Kill her!” Deimos screamed before laughing in delight. 

Draco felt something stir deep down as if it were just out of reach. 

The ice crept closer. 

Granger said something to his deaf ears, the whites of her eyes wide before she aimed her wand. 

Fire. 

The world was on fire. 

The flames from the pyre danced to Granger’s twists and turns, surrounding him, cutting him off from the world - from her. 

He watched as he cast spell after spell, slicing impotently at the animated blaze. 

_You have to run._

Draco reached down within him, stretching his reach as far as he could. 

“Just walk through the fire!” Deimos roared furiously. He felt his muscles twitch as if to move, but his feet remained planted. 

_No, don’t._

“Move!”

_No, definitely don’t._

Draco felt the pull of the curse wrap around his muscles urging him forward whilst his feet remained rooted in the earth. 

“MOVE!”

_Don’t._

Draco blinked as Fear slithered around him, covering him, holding back the ice that crept ever closer. 

The first pricks of heat alighted his senses. 

“Walkthrough you useless man!” 

Fear hugged tighter. 

_Run._

His Veela keened, he couldn’t see Granger. She was on the other side of the wall of flames with the monster. 

Draco reached, just a little farther until he felt the tide gently greet his touch. Desperately, he caught hold and pulled, anchoring himself to it as Fear covered him from the ice cavern. 

And then he heard it: the world all at once came rushing back into focus, the colours vibrant, the heat searing, the cold rain freezing, the sounds deafening... 

Granger’s scream sickening. 

He wrenched the tide and pushed, exploding the fire back with all his might. It took a moment for the world before him to refocus as he felt the tearing pain at his back pull at his shoulder, but then he saw Granger on her knees, one hand desperately reaching for her wand beside her, while the other scrabbled at the golden coil around her throat. 

_Run, go, HIDE!_

Draco snarled as he caught the wind in his claws, bringing it forth, whipping the breeze into a frenzied gale as he stalked forward.

Deimos looked up; she only had a second for the murderous glee to falter at the sight of him before he released the current that lashed wildly at her in bludgeoning blows. She dropped the coil as she stumbled back; though her body twitched with each impact, her eyes remained focused on Draco, their hatred palpable.

As he passed, Granger leant forward, hacking and coughing as she pulled the coil from her neck. 

“Well aren’t you an interesting one!” Deimos shouted as blood spurted from her lip on a particularly vicious swipe. She snapped her hand up in the space between blows and released a red spark into the sky. 

Draco could feel his energy waning; after the emotional exhaustion of today, coupled with the physical exertion and injury, and now the mental taxation to boot, he could feel himself slipping. 

“Granger,” he called, as he grabbed another clasp of the howling winds between his claws and wove them into the stream. “Granger you need to go!” 

_No! We need to!_

Draco staggered slightly as every part of him screamed in pain.

He had nothing left, he was failing. 

He could see Granger stand from the corner of his eye and exit his peripheral vision. He assumed that meant she was taking his heed. Draco gathered the wind and _pushed,_ bearing down on Deimos, constant and unerring. She braced, her feet slipping back slightly in the mud as she held against the screaming barrage. 

_Just a little longer,_ he thought as he breathed deep, drawing upon his exhausted reserves. Deimos stepped forward, burying her bare feet deep into the soil as she began to push back, her blood-thirsty grin stretched wide as she focused on him. _Just long enough for her to reach the line._

He knew that this was it. As soon as he failed here, Deimos would be on him. There would be no getting out of here. There would be no tomorrow. 

He could feel his grip slipping as tendrils of wind loosened from the funnel, disappearing into the breeze. The rain cut against his skin as it was drawn in with the gales, like icy shards beating down on him.

_Just a little longer..._

Deimos took a step forward. 

_Run my sweet boy, run!_ Fear whispered urgently in his ear.

_A little longer..._

Images flashed in his mind of Pansy, Theo, Blaise, his mother, _his father,_ Hermione… 

He growled and clawed at the air, combing in the escaping tendrils to force them back into the funnel. 

Fear screamed in his head.

_Just a little longer._

Deimos slipped back before taking another step forward. She reached, her long fingers stretching for the whip that had fallen from her hands. 

She looked up, her black eyes locking with his. 

Fury.

_This is going to hurt._

Fear clawed at his chest, squeezed his heart, pulled at his soul. 

_Hermione will live for another day…_ His Veela bolstered, surging forward with excess. 

Deimos took another step forward as the tendril of the winds broke from the funne-

An overwhelming sense of tearing sliced through Draco’s being. 

Draco held onto the tide as his body wracked with searing pain. Every fibre of his being screamed and his bones groaned. 

Something moved on the ground before him.

He pushed, desperately grasping the failing current before it all became too much. The winds faltered, filtering away, leaving only the rain to thrum against the earth once more. 

Draco fell to the floor, feeling a hollow ache in his chest and a keen sense of emptiness within him. 

He could hear somebody calling his name over the pounding in his head as his vision swam. He focused on his pale hands, his long fingers buried in the earth. 

He had failed. 

_Any second now._

He braced for pain that never came. 

He looked up, blinking against the rain that clouded his blurred vision. He felt gentle hands curl around his shoulders, heat at his side, but all he could focus on was the body that lay on the ground in front of him. 

The body was thin, wasting away, clad in threadbare black robes that melted into the darkness around them. They slowly lifted their head to reveal a gaunt face, with angles as sharp as Deimos’. Draco looked into the pale eyes that bore into his own, noting the etchings carved into the strange woman’s face. 

“I told you to run you sweet fool,” she said; her voice was so intimately familiar, that he felt his body react, wanting to reach out and embrace her. 

“This is where you’ve been hiding?!”

Everyone started and looked to Deimos, who was watching the newcomer with an expression of shock and malice. “After all these years of searching,” she continued disbelievingly, her armour and silk shining in the firelight as she prowled closer. “After all this time, you've been hiding in this BOY?!” 

Draco flinched as Deimos’ voice echoed through the night. He felt the hands around him tighten as something moved to his left. The huge shadow from earlier slinked out of the darkness, it’s black fur rippling. Its red eyes glanced toward Draco for a second before it turned to the woman on the ground who had begun to tremble as she looked to Deimos. The black creature lowered its muzzle, breathing it’s hot breath across her neck as it scented her before nudging her head roughly. 

Draco’s frame shook as a wave of exhaustion numbed the pain. The hands on his shoulders tightened their grip. 

“Stay with me,” Granger breathed. “Stay with me Draco.” 

“Please,” the frail woman began as Deimos dropped to her knees and roughly wrapped her hand around her throat. Her preoccupation with Draco, forgotten.

“We have a lot of catching up to do, dearest sister,” she seethed, her wild fury amping up once more as she stood, picking the bedraggled woman up by her throat until her toes barely touched the floor. Deimos carelessly flung the woman over the back of the beast and ignored the retching and begging as she released her grip. 

“Please, _please!_ ” the woman begged, she tried to clamour her way off of the creature. She reached with quivering fingers for Draco who felt a yearning to bring her to him, to wrap her in a familiar numbing blanket. 

Deimos mounted the creature gracefully, yanking the feeble woman back to her. 

“No, we have a lot to catch up on, Sister.” She wrapped her fingers into the creature’s mane and clicked her mouth as it lifted a huge heavy paw from the mud. Draco watched with sickening dread as Deimos lowered her head to the cowering woman’s ear and spoke through gritted teeth. “You won’t escape me again Phobos, you’re mine now.”

Draco blinked with heavy eyes, his vision blurring as the huge creature padded away and was quickly swallowed by the darkness. His body gave a final tremble before the creeping darkness curled at the edges of his consciousness. 

“Stay with me.” 

The ground rushed to meet him as exhaustion and pain swarmed his senses. 

The silence of the night was peaceful, the only sound to be heard, the quiet patter of the rain. 

He breathed deep as warm fingers brushed into his hair, the last tinges of awareness leaving him.

“Stay with me, Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... so.....you good?
> 
> Kudos is love and comments let me know you're there. Any thoughts and theories?
> 
> Come say hi at my tumblr for more content: https://thusatlas.tumblr.com/


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